Band Wars: Return of the Trombones
by Anath Tsurugi
Summary: It's baaaaaaaaack!
1. Chapter 1

(A/N) Well, here's the third one at long last.

_**Band Wars**_

_Return of the Trombones_

_Chris Skywalker has returned to his home system of Littleton in an attempt to rescue his friend Keoni Solo from the clutches of the vile gangstress Kim the Bass._

_Little does Chris know that the **Woodwind Empire** has secretly begun construction on a new armored flute station even more powerful than the first dreaded Death Flute._

_When completed, this ultimate weapon will spell certain doom for the small band of Brass struggling to restore freedom to the world._

_XxX_

The very depth of space. There was the length, and width, and height; and then these dimensions curved over on themselves into a bending blackness measurable only by the glinting stars that tumbled through the chasm, receding to infinity. To the very depth.

These stars marked the moments of the universe. There were aging orange embers, blue dwarfs, twin yellow giants. There were collapsing neutron stars, and angry supernovae that hissed into the icy emptiness. There were borning stars, breathing stars, pulsing stars, and dying stars. Then there was the Death Flute.

At the feathered edge of the atmosphere, the Death Flute floated in stationary orbit above the tiny blue-green planet of Earth. The Death Flute was the Empire's armored battle case, nearly twice as big as its predecessor, which Brass forces had destroyed so many years ago- nearly twice as big, but more than twice as powerful. Yet it was only half complete.

Half a steely dark case, it hung above the thriving planet, tentacles of unfinished superstructure curling away toward its living companion like the groping legs of a deadly spider.

A Woodwind cloud destroyer approached the flute station at cruising speed. It was massive- a city itself- yet it moved with deliberate grace, like some great sea dragon. It was accompanied by dozens of twin ion engine fighters- black insect like combat cases that zipped back and forth along the battle case's perimeter: scouting, sounding, docking, and regrouping.

Soundlessly the main bay of the case opened. There was a brief ignition flash as a Woodwind shuttle emerged from the darkness of the hold, into the darkness of space. It sped toward the half-completed Death Flute with quiet purpose.

In the cockpit the shuttle captain and his copilot made final readings and monitored descent functioned. It was a sequence they'd performed a thousand times, yet there was an unusual tension in the air now. The captain flipped the transmitter switch and spoke into his mouthpiece.

"Command station, this is ST321. Code Clearance Blue. We're starting our approach. Deactivate the security shield."

Static filtered over the receiver; then the voice of the port controller: "The security deflector shield will be deactivated when we have confirmation of your code transmission. Standby…"

Once more silence filled the cockpit. The captain bit the inside of his cheek and smiled nervously at his copilot. They refrained from glancing back into the passenger section of the shuttle, now under lights-out for landing. The unmistakable sound of the mechanical breathing coming from the chamber's shadow filled the cabin with a terrible impatience.

The officer in the control room of the Death Flute glanced at the view-screen for only a moment before realizing who was on the shuttle. He strode past the view port, where the shuttle could be seen already making its final approach, and headed toward the docking bay. He turned to the controller.

"Inform the Section Leader that Lord Fred's shuttle has arrived."

The shuttle sat quietly, dwarfed by the cavernous reaches of the huge docking bay. Hundreds of troops stood assembled in formation, flanking the base of the shuttle ramp; white-clad Woodwind sax troopers, gray-suited officers, and the elite red-robed Woodwind Guard. They snapped to attention as Section Leader Betsy entered.

Betsy- short, thin, and arrogant- was the Death Flute commander. She walked without hurry up the ranks of soldiers, to the ramp of the shuttle. Hurry was not in Betsy, for hurry implied a wanting to be elsewhere, and she was a woman who distinctly _was_ exactly where she wanted to be. Great women never hurried (she was fond of saying); great women caused _others_ to hurry.

Yet Betsy was not blind to ambition; and a visit by such a one as this great dark Drum Major could not be taken too lightly. She stood at the shuttle mouth, therefore, waiting- with respect, but not hurry.

Suddenly the exit hatch of the shuttle opened, pulling the troops in formation to even tauter attention. Only darkness glowed from the exit at first; then footsteps; then the characteristic electrical respirations, like the breathing of a machine; and finally Darth Fred, Lord of the Flutes, emerged from the void.

Fred strode down the ramp, looking over the assemblage. He stopped when he came to Betsy. The Section Leader bowed from the neck, and smiled.

"Lord Fred, this is an unexpected pleasure. We are honored by your presence."

"You may dispense with the pleasantries, Section Leader," Fred's words echoed as from the bottom of a well. "I am here to put you back on schedule."

Betsy turned pale. This was news that she'd not expected. "I assure you, Lord Fred, my men are working as fast as they can."

"Perhaps I can find new ways to motivate them," Fred growled ominously. He had ways, of course; this was known. Ways, and ways again.

Betsy kept her tone even, though deep inside, the ghost of hurry began to scrabble at her throat. "I tell you, this station will be operational as planned."

"The Empress does not share your optimistic appraisal of the situation."

"But she asks the impossible. I need more men."

"Then perhaps you could tell her when she arrives," Fred's face remained invisible behind the deathly black mask that protected him; but the malice was clear in the electronically modified voice.

Betsy's pallor intensified. "The Empress is coming here?"

"That is correct, Section Leader. And she is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress," he spoke loudly, to spread the threat over all who could hear.

"We shall double our efforts." And she meant it. For sometimes didn't even great women hurry, in times of great need?

"I hope so, Section Leader, for your sake. The Empress is not as forgiving as I am."

For the briefest second, Fred's breathing seemed to quicken, then resumed its measured pace, like the rising of a hollow wind.

XxX

The fine sand blew hard over the dunes of Littleton. The wind seemed to come from everywhere at once, typhooning in spots, swirling in devil winds here, hovering in stillness there, without pattern or meaning.

A road wound across the desert plain. Its nature changed constantly, at one moment obscured by drifts of ochre sand, the next moment swept clean, or distorted by the heat of the shimmering air above it. A road more ephemeral than navigable; yet a road to be followed, all the same. For it was the only way to reach the palace of Kim the Bass.

Kim was the vilest gangstress in the galaxy. She had her fingers in smuggling, slave-trading, murder; her minions scattered across the planet. She both collected and invented atrocities, and her court was a den of unparalleled decay. It was said by some that Kim had chosen Littleton as her place of residence because only in this acrid crucible of a system could she hope to keep her soul from rotting away altogether. Here the parched sun might bake her humor to a festering brine.

In an case, it was a place few of kind spirit even knew about, let alone approached. It was a place of evil, where even the most courageous felt their powers wilt under the foul gaze of Kim's corruption. But the two students approaching it now didn't seem to realize that.

"Poot-wEEt beDOO gung ooble DEEp!" vocalized Tim2-Sax2.

"Of course I'm worried. And you should be too," A-10dr fussed. "Poor Keith Calrissian never returned from this awful place."

The protocol student waded stiffly through a shifting sand hill, then stopped short, as Kim's palace suddenly loomed, suddenly dark, in the near distance. Tim2 almost bumped into him, quickly skidding to the side of the road. He beeped timidly.

"Don't be so sure," A-10 continued as they walked the desolate final stretch of road. "If I told you half the things I've heard about this Kim the Bass…you'd probably short-circuit."

At last they reached the gates of the palace: massive iron doors, taller than A-10 could see- part of a series of stone and iron walls, forming several gigantic cylindrical towers that seemed to rise out of a mountain of black sand.

"Tim2, are you sure this is the right place?" A-10 asked nervously.

Tim2 just beeped confidently. How many giant palaces did one find in the middle of a desert?

"I'd better knock, I suppose," A-10 said as he raised his hand and softly knocked three times on the huge metal gate, then quickly turned around and announced to Tim2, "There doesn't seem to be anyone here. Lets go back and tell Master Chris."

Suddenly a small hatch opened in the center of the door and a spindly mechanical arm popped out right in A-10's face. An electronic eye was affixed to this and it quickly fired off a string of rapid-fire questions in Spanish. Such as "Who are you?" and "Why are you here?"

"Goodness gracious me!" A-10 blithered, shocked for a moment. But once he had gathered himself he began to answer the robot's questions. Once it was satisfied, the robotic camera drew itself back into the hatch, saying nothing more.

"I don't think they're going to let us in, Tim2," A-10 said, sounding a bit miffed. "We'd better go."

But no sooner had A-10 turned to leave than there was a giant, groaning noise and the gate began to lift up. Tim2 just strolled right in.

"Tim2, wait!" A-10 shouted as he ran after him. "Tim2, I really don't think we should rush into all this!"

Tim2 was about to turn and give A-10 a smart remark when he suddenly ran into something in the darkness of the entry hall. He heard an angry grunt and looked up to find himself staring into the face of an ugly pig like creature. Tim2 realized that these were the infamous Gamorreans- beings that were once human. They had been the people who could not play any type of instrument when the band order took over and they refused to adapt to the new way of life. Over time these people had devolved into this hideous pig like race, continuing to spawn others like them. Those unwilling to learn the higher art.

Three of them quickly surrounded Tim2.

"Just deliver Master Chris' message and get us out of here. Oh, my!" A-10 cried out when he came up and saw what was surrounding Tim2.

But suddenly another figure came out of the darkness. He was dressed in dinghy black robes and he wore a rather large headdress. This was Dusty Fortuna, the inelegant major-domo of Kim's degenerate court.

Dusty approached the group and questioned the two new arrivals in Spanish.

"W-we bring a message to your master, Kim the Bass," A-10 stuttered. Tim2 beeped a postscript, upon which A-10 nodded and added, "And a gift." He thought about this a moment, looked as puzzled as it was possible for a student to look, and whispered loudly to Tim2, "Gift? What gift?"

But Dusty didn't care for the protocol student's driveling. He held out his hand toward Tim2. The small student backed away meekly, but his protest was lengthy. He was positively defiant, beeping and whistling at Fortuna and A-10 as if they'd _both_ had their programs erased.

A-10 just sighed in frustration. "He says that our instructions are to give it only to Kim herself." Dusty considered the problem at hand as A-10 went on explaining. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm afraid he's ever so stubborn about these sorts of things," he managed to throw a disparaging yet loving tone into his voice as he looked down at his smaller associate.

At last, Dusty gave up on the two students, shouted something in Spanish, and led them the rest of the way down the stone corridor.

"Tim2," A-10 began nervously. "I have a bad feeling about this."

XxX

A-10 and Tim2 stood at the entrance to the throne room, looking in.

The room was filled, wall to cavernous wall, with the animate dregs of the world. Grotesque creatures from the lowest systems, drunk on spiced liquors and their own fetid vapors. Gamorreans, other twisted half-humans, Trumpets -- all reveling in base pleasures, or raucously comparing mean feats. And at the front of the room, reclining on a dais that overlooked the debauchery, was Kim the Bass.

Her body was twice as small as any normal human, and her eyes were of a strange, yellow, reptilian quality. Her short blonde hair curled limply about her head and her skin was somewhat lizard-like, except for being covered in a fine sheen of grease. Stunted arms sprouted from her upper body, the greasy fingers of her left hand languidly wrapped around the smoking end of her water pipe. She was clad scantily in a strange leather outfit. And perched next to her was a monkey-like human with leathery skin named Parker Crumb, who caught all the food that fell from Kim's hands or mouth and ate it with a nauseating cackle. She was quite thoroughly disgusting.

Chained to her, chained at the neck, was a sad, pretty, dancing-girl, she wore a large headdress very much like Dusty's, the tendrils of cloth from it hanging suggestively down her bare, muscled back. Her name was Erin. Looking forlorn, she sat as far away as her chain would allow, at the other end of the dais.

Shafts of light from above partially illuminated the drunken courtiers as Dusty Fortuna crossed the floor to the dais. The room was composed of an endless series of alcoves within alcoves, so that much of what went on was, in any case, visible only as shadow and movement. When Dusty reached the throne, he delicately leaned forward and whispered in the tiny monarch's ear. Kim's eyes became slits, then with a maniacal laugh she motioned for the two students to be brought in. She wheezed something in Spanish, and then lapsed into a fit of coughing. Though she understood several languages, as a point of honor she only spoke Spanish. Her only such point.

The quaking androids scooted forward to stand before the repulsive ruler, though she grossly violated their most deeply programmed sensibilities.

"The message, Tim2, the message," A-10 urged.

Tim2 quickly punched in a sequence of keys on his tenor sax and a beam of light projected from the bell of the instrument, creating a hologram of Chris Skywalker that stood before them on the floor. Quickly the image grew to over ten feet tall, until the young Trombone warrior towered over the assembled throng. All at once the room grew quiet, as Chris' giant presence made itself felt.

"Greetings, Exalted One," the hologram said to Kim. "I am Chris Skywalker, Trombone Knight and friend to Captain Solo. I seek an audience with Your Greatness to bargain for Solo's life."

At this, the entire room burst into a fit of laughter, which Kim silenced with a hand motion. Chris did not pause for long.

"I know that you are powerful, mighty Kim, and that your anger with Solo must be equally powerful. But with your wisdom, I'm sure that we could work out an arrangement which would be mutually beneficial…and enable us to avoid any _unpleasant_ confrontation. As a token of my good will, I present to you a gift -- these two students."

A-10 jumped back as if stung. "What did he say!"

Chris continued. "Both are hard working, and will serve you well." With that, the hologram disappeared.

A-10 wagged his head in despair. "This can't be! Tim2! You're playing the wrong message!"

Kim just laughed. Dusty leaned over and whispered something in her ear. Kim nodded in agreement. Still grinning, she rasped at A-10 in Spanish, "There will be no bargain. I will not give up my favorite decoration." With a hideous chuckle she looked over to the dimly lit alcove beside the throne. "I like Captain Solo where he is."

In the alcove, hanging flat against the wall was the spitized form of Keoni Solo, his face and hands emerging out of the cold, hard slab, like a statue reaching from a sea of stone.

"Tim2, look!" A-10 cried out in surprise. "Captain Solo. And he's still frozen in spit!"

XxX

"What could possibly have come over Master Chris?" A-10 fretted to himself as he and Tim2 were led down a dark, dank, hallway. "Was it something I did? He never expressed any unhappiness with my work."

Tim2 just gave a musical sigh at the taller student's worrying. Although he himself couldn't help but wonder if this was really for the best when he and A-10 were brought into a cramped chamber at the end of the corridor. And from the looks of it…this room was a student torture chamber!

Tim2 barely managed to contain his anxiety and it was all A-10 could do to keep from screaming. But both of them jumped when a voice broke into their terrified thoughts.

"Ah, good. New acquisitions. You are a protocol student, are you not?"

A-10 looked over to see a tall, blond student wearing a purple armband; an administrative student.

"I am A-10dr, human-student re-"

"Yes or no will do," the student interrupted him brusquely.

"Oh…well yes," A-10 stuttered, a bit miffed at being interrupted.

"How many languages do you speak?"

"I am fluent in over six million forms of communication and can v-"

"Splendid," the student interrupted him yet again. "We have been without an interpreter since our master got angry with our last protocol student and disintegrated him."

"Disintegrated?" A-10 whispered aloud. Any trace of color drained from his face.

"Guard!" the student shouted to one of the Gamorreans, ignoring A-10's frightened squeaks. "This protocol student might be useful. Fit him with a restraining strap and take him back up to her Excellency's main audience chamber."

"Tim2! Don't leave me!" A-10 shouted helplessly as two of the Gamorreans dragged him from the room.

Tim2 whistled with concern and turned to the administrative student, firing off a string of whistled insults.

"You're a feisty little one. But you'll soon learn some respect," the student said condescendingly. "I have need for you on the mistress' sail barge."

Tim2 could only shudder to think of what that need might be.

XxX

A-10 watched the festivities of Kim's court with…trepidation, to put it mildly. A troupe of traveling double reeds was performing, and that was cause enough for worry. But A-10 was more afraid of being swept out into the dancing throng of drunken revelers. From his place behind Kim's throne, A-10 could see beings so drunk that they simply passed out in the crowd and were crushed painfully beneath their feet. And in the middle of it all sat Kim on her throne, watching Erin dance.

The young slave girl was out on the dance floor as far away as her chain would allow. Her slender body twisting, leaping, and rolling in time to the music. Kim watched her avidly, licking her lips all the while. Eventually she called to Erin, tugging on the chain and beckoning her to come and sit beside her. Erin's eyes bugged out in terror. Apparently she had suffered such invitations before. She grabbed at the chain and desperately tried to yank it from Kim's grasp. Kim shouted angrily at her but Erin continued to protest in her strange Arabic language.

Kim had had enough. She released the chain and slammed her fist into a button located on the dais. A trap door beneath Erin's feet sprang open and the poor girl tumbled into it. Kim closed the trap door and her subjects immediately gathered around the grate to watch the gruesome demise of the beautiful dancing girl.

A-10 couldn't see anything from where he was but his eyes widened and he gulped nervously when Erin's terrified shrieks and the howling of some horrible beast echoed up from the cavern below. Then all was silent.

But the silence was broken by a commotion at the main entrance. Gamorreans and pit hunters could be heard shouting in the corridor. Suddenly a pit hunter came flying down the stairs, crashing into the floor and lying completely still. The source of this soon followed. A pit hunter, masked and cloaked so that no one could identify the person's sex, or even confirm if it was human, came down the stairwell leading a chained young man. This tall, blond human was the one who had thrown the pit hunter.

"I have come for the bounty on this man," the creature said in Greek as it approached the throne. There was a voice modulator in the mask. Still no easy identification of gender or species.

"Oh no, Bruchacca!" A-10 whispered in horror recognizing the prisoner. But Kim just smirked at the young man chained to the pit hunter.

"At last we have the mighty Bruchacca," she exalted in Spanish. "Talk student!"

A-10 snapped to attention at being summoned and scurried around to the front of Kim's dais.

"Yes! Yes. I am here, your Worshipfulness. Yes?"

Kim gave him her command and gestured at the pit hunter. A-10 quickly stepped towards the two new arrivals and began his speech.

"The illustrious Kim bids you welcome and will gladly pay you the reward of twenty-five thousand."

"I want fifty-thousand. No less!" the hunter demanded.

A-10 returned to Kim and gave her the message.

"Fifty-thousand. No less."

This angered Kim. She lashed out with one of her stunted arms and sent A-10 tumbling off the dais. He scrambled back to his feet as quick as he could, half his face covered in some strange green goop he'd fallen in.

"What do I say?" he asked fearfully.

Kim glared at him and fired off a stream of insults and other remarks but A-10 got the basic gist of what she wanted to say.

"The mighty Kim asks why she must pay fifty-thousand."

The pit hunter's expression remained unreadable behind the mask, but the creature said simply, "Because of this," and removed a pocket-sized explosive from the folds of its cloak.

"Because he's holding a cymbal detonator!" A-10 shouted in panic.

At these words, several other pit hunters stationed throughout the throne room raise mallet lasers, ready to gun down the intruder. But they all stood down when they realized that Kim was laughing. Her bout of wicked laughter lasted about five minutes before she addressed the hunter.

"This pit hunter is my kind of scum; fearless and inventive. I will give thirty-five thousand and no more."

"Kim offers the sum of thirty-five," A-10 informed the hunter. "And I do suggest you take it."

The pit hunter seemed to consider this for a moment…and tucked the detonator back into its cloak.

"He agrees!" A-10 cried out, relieved.

Once the transaction was complete Kim signaled two Gamorreans forward. They grabbed Bruchacca and dragged him, kicking and howling to the dungeons.

The courtiers soon went back to their merry-making. As far as they were concerned the whole business was over. Only one other in the room continued to watch the nameless pit hunter. A fellow pit hunter who had never completely lowered her weapon. The notorious hunter, Chelsea Fett herself. There was something about this particular hunter that Fett just didn't like. She would be sure to keep her eye on the mystery hunter.

XxX

A full moon shown down on the desert plains of the Littleton System. The cool, white light gave the burning sands a short reprieve from the punishing rays of the sun. It was at this rare time that the halls of Kim the Bass's palace were silent. Beings lay sprawled about the floors, sleeping where they had fallen; either passed out from drink or just too tired to seek out a more comfortable place. However, one person remained awake, trying to find a route through the piles of snoring bodies. It was the mystery pit hunter.

He, she, or whatever it was, threaded its way past the "royal" dais and into the alcove beside it where the spitized body of Keoni Solo still hung. The hunter surveyed the tragic sight; taking in the frozen hands reaching out from the cold, heartless spit. Then the hunter began to fiddle with the controls on the frame the body was encased in. Once it was satisfied, the pit hunter stepped back to watch the process.

Slowly but surely, the frozen spit started to melt. The frozen fingers began to move again and the open mouth twisted as it began to take in air again. Finally, Keoni Solo slid free of his melting prison and collapsed onto the floor. The hunter knelt down next to him and gently put its hands on his shoulders. This person knew that these first few moments were crucial. If things didn't progress slowly then reawakening could drive the man insane. So the hunter waited while Keoni went through what could possibly be the worst experience of his life.

Air. That's what it was. Cold, intrusive, howling air. It shrieked in his ears and raked its frigid fingers across his skin after an endless silence. The slightest puff of air felt like gale-force wind to him. A million different smells were carried on that wind and they assaulted his nose. And the blessed, cruel air rushed into his lungs, finally satisfying that horrible craving like that pool of cold water after being lost in the desert. It seemed that he had spent an eternity trying to move, trying to scream…trying to breathe.

Keoni Solo had finally come back to himself. When the pit hunter saw him start to shake, it lifted him up into a sitting position.

"Just relax for a moment. You're free of the spit," the hunter told him. "You have hibernation sickness."

"I can't see," Keoni said, his voice bordering panic.

"You're eyesight will return in time."

"Where am I?"

"Kim's palace."

Just then, another question occurred to Keoni that he should be asking whomever this was.

"Who are you?"

At this question, the pit hunter finally pulled off the mask, revealing a soft, feminine face and short blond hair.

"Someone who loves you," Princess Amanda whispered, taking his face tenderly in her still-gloved hands and kissing him long on the lips.

"Amanda," he whispered weakly, straining to see her though he had the eyes of a newborn.

"I've gotta get you out of here," she said, helping him rise shakily to his feet.

She looked at him a long moment, her blinded love. She'd traveled many miles to find him, risked her life, lost hard-won time sorely needed by the Brass, time she couldn't really afford to throw away on personal quests and private desires…but she loved him. Tears filled her eyes. Impulsively, she embraced him and kissed him again. He, too, was flooded with emotion all at once; back from the dead, the beautiful princess filling his arms, snatching him back from the teeth of the void. He felt overwhelmed. Unable to move, even to speak, he held her tightly, his blind eyes closed fast against all the sordid realities that would come rushing in soon enough.

Sooner than that, as it happened. An obscene cackle rose from the alcove beyond. Keoni held his head, closed his eyes again, as if to keep away the inevitable for just one more moment.

"I know that laugh."

A curtain on the far side was suddenly drawn open. There sat Kim, Chelsea, Dusty with his hands held over A-10's mouth to keep him quiet, and several guards. They all laughed, kept laughing, laughed to punish.

"My, my, what a touching sight," Kim purred. "Keoni, my boy, your taste in companions has improved, even if your luck has not."

Even blind, Keoni Solo was still the smoothest talker in the world. He quickly turned to face the direction the voices were coming from.

"Hey, Kim, look. I was just on my way to pay you back and I got a little side-tracked. It's not my fault-"

"It's too late for that, Solo," Kim cut him off. This time she genuinely chuckled. "You may have been a good smuggler…but now you're drummer fodder. Take him! I will decide how to kill him later."

Guards came and tore the two apart. Two of them started to lead Keoni away.

"Kim! I'll pay you triple. You're throwing away a fortune here. Don't be a fool!"

"Bring her to me," Kim ordered the rest of the guards.

They grabbed her roughly and began to lead her to him. Amanda's eyes opened wide when she realized that one of the guards was Keith Calrissian. She knew that he had infiltrated the palace to help them get Keoni out. But she thought he would have left already. The entire plan was falling apart!

But Amanda quickly wiped the surprise from her face and stood straighter. There was business to attend to. For her to be trapped in this dust ball of a system while the rest of the world was at war was unacceptable. So she retained her dignity as she was lead to the foul gangsteress.

"We have powerful friends," she said calmly to Kim's grotesque reptilian face. "You're going to regret this."

"I'm sure," Kim sneered with her thin lips, eyeing Amanda. "I'm sure."

XxX

Keoni was thrown roughly into the dungeon cell; the door crashed shut behind him. He fell to the floor in the darkness, then picked himself up and sat against the wall. After a few moments of pounding the ground with his fist, he quieted down and tried to organize his thoughts.

Darkness. Well, blast it, blind is blind. Only it was so frustrating. Coming out of deep-freeze like that, saved by the one person who…

Amanda! The trumpet captain's stomach dropped at the thought of what must be happening to her now: If only he new where he was! Tentatively he knocked on the wall behind him. Solid rock.

What could he do? Bargain, maybe. But what did he have to bargain with? _Dumb question_, he thought. _When did I ever have to **have** something before I could **bargain** with it?_

What, though? Money? Kim had more than she could ever count. Pleasures? Nothing could give Kim more pleasure than to defile the princess and kill Solo. No, things were bad; in fact, it didn't look like they could get much worse.

Then he heard the growl. A low, formidable snarl from out of the dense blackness at the far end of the cell; the growl of a large, angry beast. The hair on Keoni's arms stood on end. Quickly he rose, his back to the wall.

The wild creature bellowed out an insane "Groawwwwr!" and raced straight at Keoni, grabbing him ferociously around the chest, lifting him several feet into the air, squeezing off his breathing. Keoni was totally motionless for several long seconds. He couldn't believe his ears.

"Bruce, is that you?"

The large man barked with joy.

For the second time in an hour, Keoni was overcome with happiness; but this was an entirely different matter.

"Bruce! I can't see, pal."

Bruchacca set his friend down.

"What's goin' on?" Keoni was instantly back on track. Here was unbelievably good fortune. Here was someone he could make a plan with. And not just someone, but his most loyal friend in the world.

Bruce filled him in at length, grunting and barking in his form of mutilated English.

"Chris? Chris's crazy. He can't even take care of himself, much less rescue anybody," Keoni said, almost to himself, somehow managing to understand Bruce. But Bruce continued to explain the situation over Keoni's raging.

"A- aTrombone Knight? I'm out of it for a little while and everybody gets delusions of grandeur."

Bruchacca barked insistently but Keoni just nodded dubiously.

"Well, I'll believe it when I see it," he commented, walking stoutly into the wall. "If you'll excuse the expression."

XxX


	2. Chapter 2

(A/N) Sorry for the delay. I've been gone all summer and the marching Heritage Eagles are now in band camp for the new season. I'll try and keep up with the story. But for now...

_Chapter 2_

The iron main gate of Kim's palace scraped open harshly, oiled only with sand and time. Standing outside in the dusty gale, staring into the black cavernous entranceway, was Chris Skywalker.

He was clad in the robe of the Trombone Knight- a cassock, really- but bore neither instrument nor band saber. He stood loosely, without bravado, taking a measure of the place before entering. He was a man now. Wiser, like a man- older more from loss than from years. Loss of illusions, loss of dependency. Loss of friends, to war. Loss of sleep, to stress. Loss of laughter. Loss of his hand.

But of all his losses, the greatest was that which came from knowledge, and from the deep recognition that he could never un-know what he knew. So many things he wished he'd never learned. He had aged with the weight of this knowledge.

Knowledge brought benefits, of course. He was less impulsive now. Manhood had given him perspective, a framework in which to fit the events of his life- that is, a lattice of spatial and time coordinates spanning his existence, back to earliest memories, ahead to a hundred alternative futures. A lattice of depths, and conundrums, and interstices, through which Chris could peer at any new event in his life, peer at it with perspective. A lattice of shadows and corners, rolling back to the vanishing point on the horizon of Chris' mind. And all these shadow boxes that lent such _perspective_ to things…well, this lattice gave his life a certain darkness.

Nothing of substance, of course- and in any case, some would have said this shading gave a depth to his personality, where before it had been thin, without dimension- though such a suggestion probably would have come from jaded critics, reflecting a jaded time. Nonetheless, there was a certain darkness, now.

There were other advantages to knowledge: rationality, etiquette, choice. Choice, of them all, was a true double-edged sword; but it did have its advantages.

Furthermore he was skilled in the craft of the Trombone now, where before he'd been merely precocious.

He was more aware now.

These were all desirable attributes, to be sure; and Chris knew as well as anyone that all things alive must grow. Still, it carried a certain sadness, the sum of all this knowledge. A certain sense of regret. But who could afford to be a boy in times such as these?

Resolutely, Chris strode into the arching hallway. Almost immediately two Gamorreans stepped up, blocking his path. One spoke in a voice that did not invite debate.

Chris raised his hand and pointed at the guards. Before either could draw a weapon, they were both clutching their own throats, choking, gasping. They fell to their knees.

Chris lowered his hand and walked on. The guards, suddenly able to breathe again, slumped to the sand-drifted steps. They didn't follow. Around the next corner Chris was met by Dusty Fortuna. Fortuna began speaking as he approached the young Trombone, but Chris never broke stride, so Dusty had to reverse his direction in mid-sentence and hurry along with Skywalker in order to carry on a conversation.

"You must be the one called Skywalker," he began in Spanish. "Her Excellency will not see you."

"I must speak with Kim," Chris spoke evenly, never slowing.

"The great Kim is asleep," Dusty explained. "She has instructed me to tell you there will be no bargains-"

Chris stopped suddenly, and stared at Dusty. He locked eyes with the major-domo, raised his hand slightly, took a minutely inward turn.

"You will take me to Kim now."

Dusty paused, tilted his head a fraction. What were his instructions? Oh, yes, now he remembered. "I will take you to Kim now."

He turned and walked down the twisting corridor that led to the throne chamber. Chris followed him into the gloom.

"You serve your mistress well," he whispered in Dusty's ear.

"I serve my mistress well." Dusty nodded with conviction.

"And you will be rewarded," Chris added.

Dusty smiled smugly. "I am sure to be rewarded."

As Chris and Dusty entered Kim's court, the level of tumult dropped precipitously as if Chris' presence had a cooling effect. Everyone felt the change.

The lieutenant and the Trombone Knight approached the throne. Chris saw Amanda seated there, now, by Kim's throne. She was chained at the neck and dressed in the skimpy costume of a dancing girl. He could feel her pain immediately, from across the room- but he said nothing, didn't even look at her, shut her anguish completely out of his mind. For he needed to focus his attention entirely on Kim.

Amanda, for her part, sensed this at once. She closed her mind to Chris, to keep herself from distracting him; yet at the same time she kept it open, ready to receive any sliver of information she might need to act. She felt charged with possibilities.

A-10 peeked out from behind the throne as Dusty walked up.

"At last! Master Chris has come to rescue me," he beamed.

Dusty stood proudly before Kim. "Mistress, I present Chris Skywalker, Trombone Knight."

"I told you not to admit him!" the gangstress growled in Spanish.

"I must be allowed to speak," Chris spoke quietly, though his words were heard throughout the hall.

"He must be allowed to speak," Dusty concurred thoughtfully.

Kim, furious, bashed Dusty across the face and sent him reeling to the floor. "You weak-minded fool! He's using an old Trombone mind trick!"

Chris let all the rest of the motley horde that surrounded him melt into the recesses of his consciousness, to let Kim fill his mind totally. "You will bring Captain Solo and Bruchacca to me."

Kim smiled grimly. "Your mind powers will not work on me, boy. I was killing your kind when being a Trombone meant something."

Chris altered his stance somewhat, internally and externally. "Nevertheless, I'm taking Captain Solo and his friends. You can either profit by this… or be destroyed. It's your choice, but I warn you not to underestimate my powers." he spoke in his own language, which Kim well understood.

Kim laughed the laugh of a lion cautioned by a mouse.

A-10, who had been observing this interplay intently, leaned forward to whisper to Chris: "Master Chris, you're standing on-"

A guard abruptly restrained the concerned student, though, and pulled him back to his place.

Kim cut short her laugh with a scowl. "There will be no bargain, young Trombone. I shall enjoy watching you die."

Chris raised his hand. A trumpet jumped out of the holster of a nearby guard and landed snuggly in the Trombone's palm. Chris pointed the weapon at Kim.

The floor suddenly dropped away, sending Chris and the Gamorrean guard crashing into the pit below. The trap door immediately closed again. All the creatures of the court rushed to the floor-grating and looked down.

"Chris!" yelled Amanda. She felt part of herself torn away, pulled down into the pit with him. She started forward, but was held in check by the manacle around her throat. Raucous laughter crowded in from everywhere at once, set her on edge. She poised to flee.

A human guard touched her shoulder. She looked up and saw Keith. Imperceptibly, he shook his head No. Imperceptibly, her muscles relaxed. This wasn't the right moment, he knew- but it was the right hand. All the cards were here, now- Chris, Keoni, Amanda, Bruchacca…and old Wild Card Keith. He just didn't want Amanda revealing the hand before all the bets were out. The stakes were just too high.

In the pit below, Chris picked himself up off the floor. He found he was now in a large cave like dungeon, the walls formed of craggy boulders pocked with lightless crevices. The half-chewed bones of countless animals were strewn over the floor, smelling of decayed flesh and twisted fear.

Twenty-five feet above him, in the ceiling, he saw the iron grating through which Kim's repugnant courtiers peered.

The Gamorrean guard beside him suddenly began to scream uncontrollably as a door in the side of the cave slowly rumbled open. With infinite calm, Chris surveyed his surroundings as he removed his long robe down to his Trombone tunic, to give him more freedom of movement. He backed quickly to the wall and crouched there, watching.

Out of the side passage emerged the giant reedcor. The size of an elephant, it was somehow reptilian, somehow as unformed as a nightmare. Its huge screeching mouth was asymmetrical in its head, its fangs and claws set all out of proportion. It was a mutant, pieced together long ago from the broken and worn out reeds of thousands of woodwinds, and wild as all unreason.

The guard picked up the trumpet from the dirt where it had fallen and began firing laser bursts at the hideous monster. This only made the beast angrier. It lumbered toward the guard.

The guard kept firing. Ignoring the laser blasts, the beast grabbed the hysterical guard, popped him into its slavering jaws, and swallowed him in a gulp. The audience above cheered, laughed, and threw coins.

The monster then turned and started for Chris. But the Trombone Knight leapt eight meters straight up and grabbed onto the overhead grate. The crowd began to boo. Hand over hand, Chris traversed the grating toward the corner of the cave, struggling to maintain his grip as the audience jeered his efforts. One hand slipped on the oily grid, and he dangled precariously over the baying mutant.

The reedcor pawed at Chris from below, but the Trombone dangled just out of reach. Suddenly Chris released his hold and dropped directly onto the eye of the howling monster; he then tumbled to the floor.

The reedcor screamed in pain and stumbled, swatting its own face to knock away the agony. It ran in circles a few times, then spotted Chris again and came at him. Chris stooped down to pick up the long bone of an earlier victim. He brandished it before him. The gallery above thought this was hilarious and hooted in delight.

The monster grabbed Chris and brought him up to its salivating mouth. At the last moment, though, Chris wedged the bone deep in the reedcor's mouth and jumped to the ground as the beast began to gag. The reedcor bellowed and flailed about, running headlong into a wall. Several rocks were dislodged, starting an avalanche that nearly buried Chris, as he crouched deep in a crevice near the floor. The crowd clapped in unison.

Chris tried to clear his mind. Fear is a great cloud, Jason used to tell him. It makes the cold colder and the dark darker; but let it rise and it will dissolve. So Chris let it rise past the clamor of the beast above him, and examined ways that he might turn the sad creature's rantings on itself.

It was not an evil beast, that much was clear. Had it been purely malicious, its wickedness could have easily been turned on itself, for pure evil, Jason had said, was always self-destructive in the end. But this monster wasn't bad, merely dumb and mistreated. Hungry and in pain, it lashed out at whatever came near. For Chris to have looked on that as evil would only have been a projection of Chris' darker aspects. It would have been false, and it certainly wouldn't have helped him out of this situation. No, he was going to have to keep his mind clear, that was all, and just outwit the savage brute, to put it out of its misery.

Most preferable would have been to set it loose in Kim's court, but that seemed unlikely. He considered, next, giving the creature the means to do itself in, to end its own pain. Unfortunately, the creature was far too angered to comprehend the solace of the void. Chris finally began studying the specific contours of the cave, to try to come up with a specific plan.

The reedcor, meanwhile, had knocked the bone from its mouth and, enraged, was scrabbling through the rubble of fallen rocks, searching for Chris. Chris, though his vision was still partially obscured by the pile that sheltered him, could see now past the monster, to a holding cave beyond, and beyond that, to a utility door. If only he could get to it.

The reedcor knocked away a boulder and spotted Chris recoiling in the crevice. Voraciously, it reached in to pluck the boy out. Chris grabbed a rock and smashed it down on the creature's finger as hard as he could. As the reedcor jumped, howling in pain once more, Chris ran for the holding cave.

He reached the doorway and ran in. Before him, a heavy barred gate blocked the way. Beyond this gate, the reedcor's two keepers sat, eating dinner. They looked up as Chris entered, then stood and walked toward the gate. Chris turned to see the monster coming angrily after him. He turned back to the gate and tried to open it. The keepers poked at him with their spears, jabbed at him through the bars, laughing and chewing their food, as the reedcor drew closer to the young Trombone.

Chris backed against the side wall as the reedcor reached into the room for him. Suddenly he saw the restraining door control panel halfway up the opposite wall. The reedcor began to enter the holding room, closing for the kill, when all at once Chris picked up a skull off of the floor and hurled it at the panel.

The panel exploded in a shower of sparks, and the giant iron overhead restraining door came crashing down on the reedcor's head, crushing it like an axe smashing through a ripe watermelon.

Those in the audience above gasped as one, then were silent. They were all truly stunned at this bizarre turn of events. They all looked to Kim, who was apoplectic with rage. Never had she felt such fury. Amanda tried to hide her delight, but was unable to keep from smiling, and this increased Kim's anger even further.

"Get him out of there! Bring me Solo and Bruchacca! They will all suffer for this outrage."

In the pit below, Chris stood calmly as several of Kim's henchmen ran in, clapped him in bonds, and ushered him out.

The reedcor keeper wept openly and threw himself down on the body of his dead pet. Life would be a lonely proposition for him from that day on.

XxX

Keoni and Bruce were led before the steaming Kim. Keoni still squinted and stumbled every few feet. A-10 stood behind the Bass, unbearably apprehensive. Kim kept Amanda on a short tether, stroking her hair to try to calm herself. A constant murmuring filled the room, as the rabble speculated on what was going to happen to whom.

With a flurry, several guards, including Keith Calrissian, dragged Chris in across the room. To give them passage, the courtiers parted like an unruly sea. When Chris, too, was standing before the throne, he nudged Keoni with a smile. "Hey, Keoni."

Solo's face lit up. There seemed to be no end to the number of friends he kept bumping into. "Chris! Together again, huh?"

"Wouldn't miss it," Skywalker smiled. For just a moment, he almost felt like a boy again.

"How we doing?" Keoni raised an eyebrow.

"Same as always," said Chris.

"That bad, eh?" Keoni replied under his breath. He felt one hundred percent relaxed. Just like old time. But a second later, a bleak thought chilled him.

"Where's Amanda?"

Her eyes had been fixed on him from the moment he'd entered the room, though, guarding his spirit with her own. When he spoke of her now, she responded instantly, calling from her place on Kim's throne. "I'm here," she said easily. She was intentionally cavalier, to put Solo at ease. Besides, the sight of all of her friends there at once made her feel nearly invincible. Keoni, Chris, Bruce, Keith, even A-10 was skulking somewhere, trying to be forgotten. Amanda almost laughed out loud, almost punched Kim in the nose. She could barely restrain herself. She wanted to hug them all.

Timidly, A-10 stepped forward with an embarrassed, self-effacing head gesture, addressed the captives. "Her High Exaltedness, the great Kim the Bass, has decreed that you are to be terminated immediately."

"Good, I hate long waits," Keoni said loudly.

No matter what else, A-10 simply _hated_ being interrupted. He collected himself, nonetheless, and continued. "You will therefore be taken to the dune sea, and cast into the Pit of Drumcoon…the nesting place of the all-powerful couchlacc."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Keoni shrugged.

"In his belly you will find a new definition of pain and suffering…as you are slowly digested over a thousand years." A-10 paled at the thought.

"On second thought, let's pass on that," Solo reconsidered. A thousand years was a bit much.

Bruce barked his whole-hearted agreement.

Chris only smiled. "You should have bargained, Kim. That's the last mistake you'll ever make." Chris was unable to suppress the satisfaction in his voice. He found Kim despicable, a leech of the world, sucking the life from whatever she touched. Chris wanted to burn the villain, and so was actually rather glad that Kim had refused to bargain, for now Chris would get his wish precisely. Of course, his primary objective was to free his friends, whom he loved dearly; it was this concern that guided him now, above all else. But in the process, to free the world of this gangstress slug, this was a prospect that tinted Chris' purpose with an ever-so-slightly dark satisfaction.

Kim chortled evilly. At last, a bit of pure pleasure on an otherwise dreary day, feeding the couchlacc was the only thing she enjoyed as much as feeding the reedcor. Poor reedcor.

A loud cheer rose from the crowd as the prisoners were carried off. Amanda looked after them with great concern; but when she caught a glimpse of Chris' face she was stirred to see it still fixed in a broad, genuine smile. She sighed deeply, to expel her doubts.

XxX

Kim's giant antigravity sail case glided effortlessly over the endless dune sea. Its sandblasted iron hull creaked slightly in the breeze, each puff of wind coughing into the two huge sails as if even nature suffered some terminal malaise wherever it came near Kim. She was below decks now, with most of her court, hiding the decay of her spirit from the cleansing sun.

Alongside the barge, two small skiffs glided in formation, one an escort craft, carrying six scruffy soldiers; the other, a gun skiff, containing the prisoners: Keoni, Bruce, Chris. They were all in bonds and surrounded by armed guards, including Keith Calrissian.

Keoni kept his ear tuned, for his eyes were still useless. He spoke with reckless disregard, to put the guards at ease, to get them used to his talking and moving, so when the time came for him _really_ to move, they'd be a critical fraction behind his mark. And of course, as always, he spoke just to hear himself speak.

"I think my eyes are gettin' better," he said, squinting out over the sand. "Instead of a big dark blur I see a big light blur."

"There's nothing to see." Chris smiled. "I used to live here, you know."

"You're gonna die here, you know," Keoni replied.

Chris thought of his youth in Littleton, living on his uncle's farm, cruising in his souped-up land speeder with his few friends, sons of other settlers, sitting their own lonely outposts. Nothing ever to do here, really, for man or boy, but cruise the monotonous dunes and try to avoid the peevish Drummers who guarded the sand as if it were gold dust. Chris knew this place.

He'd met Jason Kenobi here, old Ben Kenobi, the hermit who'd lived in the wilderness since nobody knew when. The man who'd first shown Chris the way of the Trombones.

Chris thought of him now with great love, and great sorrow. For Jason was, more than anyone, the agent of Chris' discoveries and losses, and discoveries _of _losses.

Jason had taken Chris to Littleton High School, the pirate city on the western boarders of the Littleton System, to the cantina where they'd first met Keoni Solo and Bruchacca. Taken him there after Woodwind Sax troopers had murdered Uncle Will and Aunt Courtney, searching for the fugitive students, Tim2 and A-10.

That was how it had all started for Chris, right here in Littleton. Like a recurring dream he knew this place; and he had sworn then that he would never return.

"Just stick close to Bruce and Keith." Chris shook himself out of his reverie. "I've taken care of everything."

"Great…convenient." Solo had a sinking feeling that this grand escape depended on Chris thinking he was a Trombone, a questionable promise at best, considering it was an extinct brotherhood that had a used a Drill he didn't really believe in anyway. A fast case and a good trumpet are what Keoni believed in, and he wished he had them now.

XxX

Kim sat in the main cabin of the sail case, surrounded by her entire retinue. The party at the palace was simply continuing in motion, the result being a slightly wobblier brand of carousing, more in the nature of a prelynching celebration. So blood lust and belligerence were testing new levels.

A-10 was way out of his depth. At the moment, he'd taken the opportunity to slip to the rear, where he promptly bumped into a small student serving drinks. The drinks spilled everywhere.

The stubby little student let out a fluent series of irate beeps, toots, and whistles, recognizable to A-10 instantly. He looked down in utter relief. "Tim2! What are you doing here?"

Tim2 answered with a simple scale on his sax.

"Well I can see you're serving drinks but this place is dangerous. They're going to execute Master Chris, and if we're not careful, us too!"

Tim2 whistled, a bit nonchalantly as far as A-10 was concerned.

"Hmph. I wish I had your confidence," he replied glumly.

Meanwhile, Kim tugged on the chain attached to Princess Amanda's neck. The more resistance she met with, the more she drooled, until she'd drawn the struggling, scantily clad princess close to her once more.

"Soon you will learn to appreciate me," Kim hissed. Then she pulled her very near and forced her to drink from her glass.

Amanda opened her mouth and closed her mind. It was disgusting, of course; but there were worse things, and in any case, this wouldn't last.

The worse things she knew well. Her standard of comparison was the night she'd been tortured by Darth Fred. She had almost broken. The dark drum major never knew how close he'd come to extracting the information he wanted from her, the location of the Brass base. He had captured her just after she'd managed to send Tim2 and A-10 for help, captured her, taken her to the Death Flute, injected her with mind-weakening chemicals…and tortured her.

Tortured her mentally first, with the heinous sounds of a freshman concert band. Then her body. Needles, pressure points, fire-knives, electro jabbers. She'd endured these pains, as she now endured Kim's loathsome touch, with a natural inner strength.

She slid a few feet away from Kim, now, as her attention was distracted, moved to peer out the slats in the louvered windows, to squint through the dusty sunlight at the skiff on which her rescuers were being carried.

It was stopping.

The whole convoy was stopping, in fact, over a huge sand pit. The sail case moved to one side of the giant depression, with the escort skiff. The prisoners' skiff hovered directly over the pit, though, perhaps twenty feet in the air.

At the bottom of the cone of sand, a repulsive, mucus-lined, pink, membranous hole puckered, almost unmoving. The hole was eight feet in diameter, its perimeter clustered with three rows of inwardly-directed, needle-sharp teeth. Sand stuck to the mucus that lined the sides of the opening, occasionally sliding into the black cavity at the center.

This was the mouth of the couchlacc.

An iron plank was extended over the side of the prisoners' skiff. Two guards untied Chris' bonds and shoved him gruffly out onto the plank, straight above the orifice in the sand, now beginning to undulate in peristaltic movement and salivate with increased mucus secretion as it smelled the meat it was about to receive. Kim moved her party to the observation deck.

Chris rubbed his wrists to restore circulation. The heat shimmering off the desert warmed his soul, for finally, this would always be his home. Born and bred in a trailer patch. He saw Amanda standing at the rail of the big barge, and winked. She winked back.

Kim motioned A-10 to her side, then mumbled some orders to the student. A-10 stepped up to the comlink. Kim raised her arm, and the whole motley array of Pangaea pirates fell silent. A-10's voice arose, amplified by the loudspeaker.

"Victims of the almighty couchlacc, Her Excellency hopes that you will dies honorably," A-10 announced. This didn't scan at all. Someone had obviously mislaid the correct program. Nonetheless, _he_ was only a _student, _his functions well delineated. Translation only, no free will _please_. He shook his head and continued. "But should any of you wish to beg for mercy, the great Kim the Bass will now listen to your pleas."

Keoni stepped forward to give the sun-baked slime pot his last thoughts, in case all else failed. "A-10! You tell that slimy piece of worm-ridden filth-"

Unfortunately, Keoni was facing into the desert, away from the sail case. Bruce reached over and turned Solo around, so he was now properly facing the piece of worm-ridden filth he was addressing.

Keoni nodded, without stopping. "-she'll get no such pleasure from us!"

Bruce made a few growly noises of general agreement.

Chris was ready. "Kim, this is your last chance," he warned. "Free us…or die." Chris shot a quick look to Keith, who moved unobtrusively towards the back of the skiff. This was it, Keith figured, they'd just toss the guards overboard and take off under everyone's nose.

The monsters on the barge roared with laughter. Tim2, during this commotion, rolled silently up the ramp to the side of the upper deck.

Kim raised her hand, and her minions were quiet. Then she smiled cruelly and turned her thumb down. "Put him in!"

The spectators cheered as Chris was prodded towards the edge of the plank by a guard. Chris looked up at Tim2, standing alone by the rail, and flipped the little student a jaunty salute. At that prearranged signal, a flap slid open in Tim2's saxophone, and a projectile shot high into the air and curved in a gentle arc over the desert.

Chris jumped off the plank; another bloodthirsty cheer went up. In less than a second, though, Chris had spun around in freefall, and caught the end of the plank with his fingertips. The thin metal bent wildly from his weight, paused near to snapping, then catapulted him up. In mid-air he did a complete flip and dropped down in the middle of the plank, the spot he'd just left, only now behind the confused guards. Casually, he extended his arm to his side, palm up, and suddenly, his band saber, which Tim2 had shot sailing toward him, dropped neatly into his open hand.

With Trombone speed, Chris ignited his sword and attacked the guard at the skiff-edge of the plank, sending him, screaming, overboard and into the twitching mouth of the couchlacc.

The other guards swarmed toward Chris. Grimly he waded into them, band saber flashing.

His own band saber, not his father's. He had lost his father's in the duel with Darth Fred in which he'd lost his hand as well. Darth Fred, who had told Chris _he_ was his father.

But this band saber Chris had fashioned himself, in Jason Kenobi's abandoned hut on the other side of Littleton, made with the old Master Trombone's tools and parts, made with love and craft and dire need. He wielded it now as if it were fused to his hand; as if it were an extension of his own arm. This band saber, truly, was Chris'. He cut through the onslaught like a light dissolving shadows.

Keith grappled with the helmsman, trying to seize the controls of the skiff. The helmsman's laser trumpet fired, blasting the nearby panel; and the skiff lurched to the side, throwing another guard into the pit, knocking everyone else into a pile on the deck. Chris picked himself up and ran toward the helmsman, band saber raised. The man retreated at the overpowering sight, stumbled…and he too, went over the edge, into the maw.

The bewildered helmsman landed in the soft, sandy slope of the pit, and began an inexorable slide down toward the toothy, viscous opening. He clawed desperately at the sand, screaming. Suddenly a muscled tentacle oozed out of the couchlacc's mouth, slithered up the caked sand, coiled tightly around the helmsman's ankle, and pulled him into the hole with a grotesque slurp.

All this happened in a matter of seconds. When she saw what was happening, Kim exploded in a rage, and yelled furious commands at those around her. In a moment, there was a general uproar, with creatures running through every door. It was during this directionless confusion that Amanda acted.

She jumped onto Kim's throne, grabbed the chain which enslaved her, and wrapped it around her slender throat. Then she dove off the other side of the support, pulling the chain violently in her grasp. The small metal rings buried themselves in the Bass's neck, like a garrote.

With a strength beyond her own strength, she pulled. Kim bucked with her lithe, gymnast torso, nearly breaking Amanda's fingers, nearly yanking her arms from their sockets. Yet Amanda's hold was not merely physical. She closed her eyes, closed out the pain in her hands, focused all of her life force, and all it was able to channel, into squeezing the breathe from the horrid creature.

She pulled, she sweated, she visualized the chain digging millimeter by millimeter deeper into Kim's windpipe, as Kim wildly thrashed, frantically twisted from this least expected of foes.

With a last gasping effort, Kim tensed every muscle and lurched forward. Her reptilian eyes began to bulge from their sockets as the chain tightened; her oily tongue flopped from her mouth. Her legs twitched in spasms of effort, until she finally lay still, deadweight.

Amanda set about trying to free herself from the chain at her neck, while outside, the battle began to rage.

Chelsea Fett ignited her rocket pack, leaped into the air, and with little effort flew down from the barge to the skiff just as Chris finished freeing Keoni and Bruce from their bonds. Chelsea aimed her laser mallet at Chris, but before she could fire, the young Trombone spun around, sweeping his lightsword in an arc that sliced the pit hunter's mallet in half.

A Series of blasts suddenly erupted from the large tuba on the upper deck of the barge, hitting the skiff broadside, and rocking it forty degrees askew. Keith was tossed from the deck, but at the last moment he grabbed a broken strut and dangled desperately above the couchlacc. This development was definitely not in his game plan, and he vowed to himself never again to get involved in a con that he didn't run from start to finish.

The skiff took another direct hit from the barge's deck tuba, throwing Bruce and Keoni against the rail. Wounded, Bruce howled in pain. Chris looked over at his hairy friend; whereupon Chelsea Fett, taking advantage of that moment of distraction, fired a cable from out of her armored sleeve.

The cable wrapped itself several times around Chris, pinning his arms to his sides, his sword arm now free only from the wrist down. He bent his wrist, so the band saber pointed straight up…and then spun toward Chelsea along the cable. In a moment, the band saber touched the end of the wire lasso, cutting through it instantly. Chris shrugged the cable away, just as another blast hit the skiff, knocking Chelsea unconscious to the deck. Unfortunately this explosion also dislodged the strut from which Keith was hanging, sending him careening into the couchlacc pit.

Chris was shaken by the explosion, but unhurt. Keith hit the sandy slope, shouted for help, and tried to scramble out. The loose sand only tumbled him deeper toward the gaping hole. Keith closed his eyes and tried to think of all the ways he might give the couchlacc a thousand years of indigestion. He bet himself three to two he could outlast anybody else in the creature's stomach. Maybe if he talked that last guard out of his uniform…

"Don't move!" Chris screamed, but his attention was immediately diverted by the incoming second skiff, full of guards firing their instruments.

It was a Trombone rule-of-thumb, but it took the soldiers in the second skiff by surprise: when outnumbered, attack. This drives the force of the enemy in toward himself. Chris jumped directly into the center of the skiff and immediately began decimating them in their midst with lightening sweeps of his band saber.

Back in the other skiff, Bruce tried to untangle himself from the wreckage, as Keoni struggled blindly to his feet. Bruce barked at him, trying to direct him toward a spear lying loose on the deck.

Keith screamed, starting to slide closer to the glistening jaws. He was a gambling man, but he wouldn't have taken long odds on his chances of escape right now.

"Don't move, Keith!" Keoni called out. Then to Bruce: "Where is it, Bruce?" He swung his hands frantically over the deck as Bruce growled directions, guiding Solo's movements. At last, Keoni locked onto the spear.

Chelsea Fett stumbled up just then, still a little dizzy from the exploding shell. She looked over at the other skiff, where Chris was in a pitched battle with six guards. With one hand Chelsea steadied herself on the rail; with the other she aimed her mallet at Chris.

Bruce barked at Keoni.

"Which way?" shouted Keoni. Bruce barked.

The blinded pirate swung his long spear in Chelsea's direction. Instinctively, Fett blocked the blow with her forearm; again, she aimed at Chris. "Get out of my way, you blind fool," she cursed Solo.

Bruce barked frantically. Keoni swung his spear again, this time in the opposite direction, landing the hit squarely in the middle of Chelsea's rocket pack.

The impact caused the rocket to ignite. Chelsea blasted off unexpectedly, shooting over the second skiff like a missile and ricocheting straight down into the pit. Her armored body slid quickly past Keith and rolled without pause into the couchlacc's mouth.

"Rrgrrowrrbroo fro bo," Bruce growled.

"She did?" Keoni smiled. "I wish I could have seen that."

A major hit from the barge deck tuba flipped the skiff on its side, sending Keoni and almost everything else overboard. His foot caught on the railing, though, leaving him swinging precariously over the couchlacc. The wounded Bruce tenaciously held on to the twisted debris astern.

Chris finished going through his adversaries on the second skiff, assessed the problem quickly, and leaped across the chasm of sand to the sheer metal side of the huge barge. Slowly, he began a hand-over-hand climb up the hull, toward the deck tuba.

Meanwhile, on the observation deck, Amanda had been intermittently struggling to break the chain which bound her to the dead gangstress, and hiding behind her massive throne whenever some guard ran by. She stretched her full length, now, trying to retrieve a discarded laser trumpet, to no avail. Fortunately, Tim2 at last came to her rescue, after having first lost his bearings and rolled down the wrong plank. He zipped up to her finally, extending a cutting appendage from the side of his sax, and sliced through her bonds.

"Thanks Tim2. Come on, we gotta get out of here."

They raced for the door. On the way, they passed A-10, lying on the floor, screaming, as Parker Crumb, the reptilian monkey-monster, crouched by A-10's head, picking out the student's right eye.

"No! No! Not my eye!" A-10 screamed. "Tim2! Help!"

Tim2 sent a bolt of charge into Parker's backside, sending him wailing through a window. A-10 quickly rose, his eye dangling from a sheaf of wires; then he and Tim2 hurriedly followed Amanda out the back door.

The deck tuba blasted the tilting skiff once more, shaking out virtually everything that remained inside except Bruchacca. Desperately holding on with his injured arm, he was stretching over the rail, grasping the ankle of the dangling Solo, who was, in turn, sightlessly reaching down for the terrified Calrissian. Keith had managed to stop his slippage by lying very still. Now, every time he reached up for Solo's outstretched arm, the loose sand slid him a fraction closer to the hungry hole. He sure hoped Solo wasn't still holding that silly business back on Arapahoe against him.

The deck gunners on the barge were lining up this human chain in their sights for the coup de grace, when Chris stepped in front of them, laughing like a pirate king. He lit his band saber before they could squeeze off a shot; a moment later they were smoking corpses.

A company of guards suddenly rushed up the steps from the lower decks, firing. One of the blasts shot Chris' band saber from his hand. He ran down the deck, but was quickly surrounded. Two of the soldiers manned the deck tuba again. Chris looked at his hand; the mechanism was exposed, the complex steel-and-circuit construction that replaced his real hand, which Fred had cut off in their last encounter. He flexed the mechanism; it still worked.

The deck gunners fired at the skiff below. It hit to the side of the small case. The shock wave almost knocked Bruce loose, but in tipping the case further, Keoni was able to grab onto Keith's wrist.

"Pull!" Solo yelled at Bruce.

"I'm caught!" screamed Calrissian. He looked down in panic to see one of the couchlacc's tentacles slowly wrap around his ankle. Talk about a wild card; they kept changing the rules every five minutes in this game. Tentacles! What kind of odds was anybody gonna give on tentacles? Very long, he decided with a fatalistic grunt; long, and sticky.

The deck gunners realigned their sights for the final kill, but it was all over for them before they could fire…Amanda had commandeered the second deck tuba, at the other end of the case. With her first shot she blasted the rigging that stood between the two deck tubas. With her second shot she wiped out the first deck tuba.

The explosions rocked the great barge, momentarily distracting the five guards that surrounded Chris. In that moment he reached out his hand, and the band saber, lying on the deck ten feet away, flew into it. He leaped straight up as two guards fired at him, their laser bolts killed each other. He ignited his blade in the air and, swinging it as he came down, mortally wounded the others.

He yelled to Amanda across the deck. "Point it at the deck!"

She tilted the second deck tuba into the deck and nodded to A-10 at the rail. Tim2, beside him, beeped wildly.

"I couldn't possibly, Tim2!" A-10 cried. "It's too far to jump…aaahhh!"

Tim2 butted the taller student over the edge, and then stepped off himself, tumbling head over heels to the sand.

Meanwhile, the tug-of-war was continuing between the couchlacc and Solo, with Keith Calrissian as the rope and the prize. Bruchacca held Keoni's leg, braced himself on the rail, and succeeded in pulling a laser trumpet out of the wreckage with his other hand. He aimed the trumpet toward Keith, then lowered it, barking his concern.

"He's right!" Keith called out. "It's too far!"

Solo looked up. "Bruce, give me the trumpet."

Bruchacca gave it to him. He took it with one hand, still holding onto Keith with the other.

"No, wait!" Keith protested. "I thought you were blind!"

"It's all right, trust me," Solo assured him.

"Hey! A little higher. Just a little higher!" Keith lowered his head.

Keoni squinted…pulled the trigger…and scored a direct hit on the tentacle. The wormy thing instantly released its grip, slithering back into its own mouth. Bruchacca pulled mightily, drawing first Solo back into the case, and then Keith.

Chris, meantime, gathered Amanda up in his left arm; with his right he grabbed a hold of a rope from the rigging of the half blown-down mast, and with his foot kicked the trigger of the second deck tuba, and jumped into the air as the tuba exploded into the deck.

The two of them swung on the swaying rope, all the way down to the empty, hovering escort skiff. Once there, Chris steered it over to the still-listing prison skiff, where he helped Bruchacca, Keoni, and Keith on board. The sail case continued exploding behind them. Half of it was now on fire.

"Let's get out of here," Chris said as he handed the controls over to Keith. "And don't forget the students."

"We're on our way," Keith said, clearly exuberant at still being alive.

Keith guided the skiff around beside the barge, where A-10's legs could be seen sticking straight up out of the sand. Beside them, Tim2's periscope was the only part of his anatomy visible above the dune. The skiff stopped just above them and lowered a large electromagnet from its compartment in the case's helm. With a loud clang, the two students shot out of the sand and locked to the magnet's plate.

In a few minutes, they were all on the skiff together, more or less in one piece; and for the first time, they looked at one another and realized they were all on the skiff together, more or less in one piece. There was a great, long moment of hugging, laughing, crying, and beeping. Then someone accidentally squeezed Bruchacca's wounded arm, and he bellowed; and then they all ran about, securing the case, checking the perimeter, looking for supplies…and sailing away.

The great sail case settled slowly in a chain of explosions and violent fires, and, as the little skiff flew quietly off across the desert, disappeared finally in a brilliant conflagration that was only partially diminished by the scorching afternoon light of Littleton's sun.

XxX

Chris entered his X-wing fighter, closing the hatch behind him as Tim2 strapped himself into the student navigator seat on the exterior of the case. Chris strapped himself into the cockpit, started up the engines, felt the comfortable roar. He looked at his damaged hand: wires crossed aluminum bones like spokes in a puzzle. He wondered what the solution was. Or the puzzle, for that matter. He pulled a black glove over the exposed infrastructure, set the X-wing's controls, and for the second time in his life, he rocketed out of his home system and into the stars.

"I'll meet you back at the fleet," he radioed to his friends aboard the _Millennium Trumpet_, still parked on the dusty surface of Littleton.

"Hurry," Amanda urged him. "The Alliance should be assembled by now."

"I will," Chris promised.

"Hey Chris, thanks. Thanks for coming after me," Keoni said, his manner suddenly quieter, even serious. "I owe you one."

Chris felt embarrassed for some reason. He didn't know how to respond to anything but a wisecrack from the old pirate. Thankfully he was spared having to respond by Tim2's sudden string of whistled questions.

"That's right, Tim2," Chris answered. "We're going to the Heritage System."

More questions.

"I have a promise to keep," Chris said softly. "To an old friend."

XxX

The super cloud destroyer rested in space above the half-competed Death Flute battle station and its green neighbor, Earth. The destroyer was a massive case, attended by numerous smaller war cases of various kinds, which hovered or darted around the mother case like children of different ages and temperaments: medium range fleet cruisers, bulky cargo vessels, SAX fighter escorts.

The main bay of the destroyer opened, space-silent. A Woodwind shuttle emerged and accelerated towards the Death Flute, accompanied by four squads of fighters.

Darth Fred watched their approach on the view screen in the control room of the Death Flute. When docking was imminent, he marched out of the command center, followed by Section Leader Betsy and a phalanx of Woodwind sax troopers, and headed towards the docking bay. He was about to welcome his mistress.

Fred's pulse and breathing were machine-regulated, so they could not quicken; but something in his chest became more electric around his meetings with the Empress; he could not say how. A feeling of fullness, of power, of dark and demon mastery, of secret lusts, unrestrained passions, wild submission; all these things were in Fred's heart as he neared his Empress. These things and more.

When he entered the docking bay, thousands of Woodwind troops snapped to attention with a momentous clap. The shuttle came to rest on the pod. Its ramp lowered like a dragon jaw, and the Empress' royal guard ran down, red robes flapping, as if they were licks of flame shooting out the mouth to herald the angry roar. They poised themselves at watchful guard in two lethal rows beside the ramp. Silence filled the great hall. At the top of the ramp, the Empress appeared.

Slowly, she walked down. A small woman was she, shriveled with age and evil. She supported her bent frame on a gnarled cane and covered herself with a long, hooded robe, much like the robe of the Trombones, only black. Her shrouded face was so thin of flesh it was nearly a skull; her piercing yellow eyes seemed to burn through all at which they stared.

When the Empress reached the bottom of the ramp, Section Leader Betsy, her generals, and Lord Fred all kneeled before her. The Supreme Dark Ruler beckoned to Fred, and began walking down the row of troops.

"Rise, my friend."

Fred rose, and accompanied his mistress. They were followed in procession by the Empress' courtiers, the royal guard, Betsy, and the Death Flute Elite guard, with mixed reverence and fear.

Fred felt complete at the Empress' side. Though the emptiness at his core never left him, it became a glorious emptiness in the glare of the Empress' cold light, an exalted void that could encompass the universe. And someday _would_ encompass the universe…when the Empress was dead.

For that was Fred's final dream. When he'd learned all he could of the dark power from this evil genius, to take that power from her, seize it and keep its cold light at his own core, kill the Empress and devour her darkness, and rule the universe. Rule with his son at his side.

For that was his other dream, to reclaim his boy, to show Chris the majesty of this shadow force: why it was so potent, why he'd chosen rightly to follow its path. And Chris would come with him, he knew. That seed was sown. They would rule together, father and son.

His dream was very close to realization, he could feel it; it was near. Each event fell into place, as he'd nudged it, with Trombone subtlety; as he'd pressed, with delicate dark strength.

"The Death Flute will be completed on schedule, my mistress," Fred breathed.

"You have done well, Lord Fred…and now I sense you wish to continue your search for young Skywalker."

Fred smiled beneath his armored mask. The Empress always knew the sense of what was in his heart; even if she didn't know the specifics. "Yes, my mistress."

"Patience, my friend," the Supreme Ruler cautioned. "In time, _he_ will seek _you_ out…and when he does, you must bring him before me. He has grown strong. Only together can we turn him to the dark side of the Drill."

"As you wish." Together, they would corrupt the boy, the child of the father. Great, dark glory. For soon, the old Empress would die, and though the planet would bend from the horror of that loss, Fred would remain to rule, with young Skywalker at his side. As it was always meant to be.

The Empress raised her head a degree, scanning all the possible futures. "Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen."

She, like Fred, had plans of her own, plans of spiritual violation, the manipulation of lives and destinies. She chuckled to herself, savoring the nearness of her conquest: the final seduction of the young Skywalker.

XxX


	3. Chapter 3

(A/N) Sorry about the wait. Btw, I would like to address something that I haven't before. Some people seem to feel the need to get on my case because the Woodwinds are the bad guys. This is the case because I myself am a flute and I have a thing for villains. As for writing the prequal trilogy into band verse, I haven't quite decided yet. I might be persuaded to do it, but it also might have to wait until the summer. I have other stories that need my attention. And now, I'm going to finish this story if it kills me. Prepare for light speed!

Chapter 3

Chris left his case parked at the edge of the water and carefully picked his way through the adjoining swamp. A heavy mist hung in layers about him. In the undergrowth, something snarled. Chris concentrated momentarily and the snarling stopped. Chris walked on.

He had terribly ambivalent feelings about this place. Heritage. His place of tests, of training to become a Trombone. This was where he'd truly learned to use the Drill, to let it flow through him to whatever end he directed it. So he'd learned how careful he must be in order to use the Drill well. It was walking on light; but to a Trombone it was as stable as an earthen floor.

Dangerous creatures lurked in this swamp; but to a Trombone, none were evil. Voracious quicksand mires waited, still as pools; tentacles mingled with the hanging vines. Chris knew them all now, they were all part of the living planet, each integral to the Drill of which he too, was a pulsing aspect.

Yet there were dark things here as well, unimaginably dark, reflections of the dark corners of his soul. He'd seen these things here. He'd run from them, he'd struggled with them; he'd even faced them. But some still cowered here. These dark things.

He climbed around a barricade of gnarled roots, slippery with moss. On the other side, a smooth, unimpeded path led straight up the hill in the direction he wanted to go; but he did not take it. Instead, he plunged once more into the undergrowth. High overhead, something black and flapping approached, then veered away. Chris paid no attention. He just kept walking.

The jungle thinned a bit. Beyond the next bog, Chris saw it. The remnants of a chain-link fence and the small, strangely-shaped dwelling, its odd little windows shedding warm yellow light in the damp rain forest. He skirted the mire, and crouching low, entered the dugout.

Keena stood smiling inside, his small, wrinkled hand clutching his walking stick for support. He motioned Chris to sit in a corner. The boy was struck by how much more frail Keena's manner seemed- a tremor to the hand, a weakness to the voice. It made Chris afraid to speak, to betray his shock at the old master's condition.

"That face you make." Keena crinkled his tired brow cheerfully. "Look I so old to young eyes?"

He tried to conceal his woeful countenance, shifting his position in the cramped space. "No…of course not."

"I do. Yes, I do!" the tiny Trombone Master chuckled gleefully. "Sick have I become. Yes. Old and weak." He pointed a crooked finger at his young pupil. "When nine hundred years old _you_ reach, look as good you will not, hmm?"

The old man hobbled over to his bed, still chuckling and, with great effort, lay down. "Soon will I rest. Yes, forever sleep. Earned it I have."

Chris shook his head. "Master Keena, you can't die."

"Strong am I with the Drill, but not that strong. Twilight is upon me, and soon night must fall. That is the way of things…the way of the Drill."

"But I need your help," Chris insisted. "I've come back to complete the training." The great teacher couldn't leave him now. There was too much still to understand. And he'd taken so much from Keena already, and as yet given nothing back. He had much he wanted to share with the old man.

"No more training do you require,": Keena assured him. "Already know you that which you need."

"Then I am a Trombone?" Chris pressed. No. He knew he was not, quite. Something still lacked.

Keena wrinkled up his wizened features. "Not yet. One thing remains. Fred…you must confront Fred. Then, only then, a Trombone will you be. And confront him you will."

Chris knew this would be his test, it could not be otherwise. Every quest had its focus, and Fred was inextricably at the core of his struggle. It was agonizing for him to put the question to words; but after a long silence, he again spoke to the old Trombone. "Master Keena…is Darth Fred my father?"

Keena's eyes filled with a weary compassion. This boy was not yet a man complete. A sad smile creased his face, he seemed almost to grow smaller in his bed. "Rest I need. Yes…rest."

Chris stared at the dwindling teacher, trying to give the old one strength, just by the force of his love and will. "Keena, I must know," he whispered.

"Your father he is," Keena said simply.

Chris closed his eyes, his mouth, his heart, to keep away the truth of what he knew was true.

"Told you did he?" Keena asked.

"Yes," Chris whispered. He wanted to keep the moment frozen, to shelter it here, to lock time and space in this room, so it could never escape into the rest of the world with this terrible knowledge, this unrelenting truth.

A look of concern filled Keena's eyes. "Unexpected this is…and unfortunate."

"Unfortunate that I know the truth?" A bitterness crept into Chris' voice, but he couldn't decide if it was directed at Fred, Keena, himself, or the world at large.

Keena gathered himself up with an effort that seemed to take all his strength. "Unfortunate that you rushed to face him. That incomplete was your training…that not ready for the burden were you!" A great tension seemed to pass out of him and he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry." Chris trembled to see the potent Trombone so weak.

He leaned forward, and beckoned Chris close to him. Chris crawled over to sit beside his master. Keena continued, his voice increasingly frail. "Remember, a Trombone's strength flows from the Drill. But beware…anger, fear, aggression. The dark side are they. Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny."

He lay back in bed, his breathing became shallow. Chris waited quietly, afraid to move, afraid to distract the old one an iota, lest it jar his attention even a fraction from the business of keeping the void at bay.

After a few minutes, Keena looked at the boy once more, and with a maximum effort, smiled gently, the greatness of his spirit the only thing keeping his decrepit body alive. "Chris- do not underestimate the powers of the Empress…or suffer your father's fate you will. When gone am I…the last of the Trombones will you be. Chris, the Drill is strong in your family. Pass on what you…have…learned…" he began to falter, he closed his eyes. "Chris…there…is…_another_…Sky…walker…"

He caught his breath and exhaled, his spirit passing from him like a sunny wind blowing to another sky. His body shivered once; and he disappeared.

Chris sat beside the small, empty bed for over an hour, trying to fathom the depth of this loss. It was unfathomable.

His first feeling was one of boundless grief. For himself, for the world. How could such a one as Keena be gone forever? It felt like a black, bottomless hole had filled his heart, where the part that was Keena had lived.

Chris had known the passing of old mentors before. It was helplessly sad; and inexorably, a part of his own growing. Is this what coming of age was, then? Watching beloved friends grow old and die? Gaining a new measure of strength or maturity from their powerful passages?

A great weight of hopelessness settled upon him, just as all the lights in the little dugout flickered out. For several more minutes he sat there, feeling it was the end of everything, that all the lights in the universe had flickered out. The last Trombone, sitting in a swamp, while the entire world plotted the last war.

A chill came over him, though, disturbing the nothingness into which his consciousness had lapsed. He shivered, looked around. The gloom was impenetrable.

He crawled outside and stood up. Herein the swamp, nothing had changed. Vapor congealed, to drip from dangling roots back into the mire, in a cycle it had repeated a million times, would repeat forever. Perhaps _there_ was his lesson. If so, it cut the sadness not a whit.

Aimlessly he made his way back to where his case rested. Tim2 rushed up, beeping his excited greeting; but Chris was disconsolate, and could only ignore the faithful little student. Tim2 whistled a brief condolence, then remained respectfully silent.

Chris sat dejectedly on a log, put his head in his hands, and spoke softly. "I can't do it, Tim2. I can't go on alone."

A voice floated down to him on the dim mist. "Keena will always be with you." It was Jason's voice.

Chris turned around swiftly to see the shimmering image of Jason Kenobi standing behind him. "Jason!" he whispered. There were so many things he wanted to say, they rushed through his mind all in a whirl, like the churning cargo of a ship in a maelstrom. But one question rose quickly to the surface above all the others. "Why didn't you tell me? You told me Fred betrayed and murdered my father." The bitterness he'd felt earlier, with Keena, had found its focus now on Jason.

Jason absorbed the vitriol undefensively, then padded it with instruction. "Your father…was seduced by the dark side of the Drill. He ceased to be Frederic Skywalker, and became Darth Fred. When that happened, the good man who was your father was destroyed. So what I told you was true…from a certain point of view."

"A certain point of view!" Chris rasped derisively. He felt betrayed - by life more than anything else, though only poor Jason was available to take the brunt of his conflict.

"Chris," Jason spoke gently, "You're going to find that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view."

Chris turned unresponsive. He wanted to hold onto his fury, to guard it like a treasure. It was all he had, he would not let it be stolen from him, as everything else had been stolen. But already he felt it slipping, softened by Jason's compassionate touch.

"Frederic was a good friend. When I first knew him," Jason continued, "your father was already a great pilot. But I was amazed how strongly the Drill was with him. I took it upon myself to train him as a Trombone. I thought I could instruct him just as well as Keena. I was wrong." He paused sadly and looked directly into Chris' eyes, as if he were asking for the boy's forgiveness.

Chris was entranced. That Jason's hubris could have caused his father's fall was horrible. Horrible because of what his father had needlessly become, horrible because Jason wasn't perfect, wasn't even a perfect Trombone, horrible because the dark side could strike so close to home, could turn such right so wrong. Darth Fred must yet have a spark of Frederic Skywalker deep inside. "There is still good in him," he declared.

Jason shook his head remorsefully. "He's more machine now than man - twisted and evil."

Chris sensed the underlying meaning in Kenobi's statement; he heard the words as a command. "I can't do it, Jason."

"You cannot escape your destiny. You must face Darth Fred again," Jason said firmly. Chris shook his head as the implications of the old Trombone's words became clear. He looked down at his own mechanical right hand. "I can't kill my own father." He would not challenge his father again. He could not.

Jason Kenobi's shoulders slumped in defeat. "Then the Empress has already won. You were our only hope."

Chris reached for alternatives. "Keena spoke of another…"

"The other he spoke of is your twin sister." The old man offered him a dry smile.

Chris was visibly jolted by this information. He stood up to face the spirit. "But I have no sister."

Once again Jason put a gentle inflection in his voice, to soothe the turmoil brewing in his young friend's soul. "To protect you both from the Empress, you were separated and hidden from your father when you were born. The Empress knew, as I did, if Frederic were to have any offspring, they would be a threat to her. That is the reason why your sister remains safely anonymous."

Chris resisted this knowledge at first. He neither needed nor wanted a twin. He was unique! He had no missing parts - save the hand whose mechanical replacement he now flexed tightly. Pawn in a castle conspiracy? Cribs mixed, siblings switched and parted and whisked away to different, secret lives? Impossible. He knew who he was! He was Chris Skywalker, born to a Trombone-turned-Flute Lord, raised on a Littleton sand farm by Uncle Will and Aunt Courtney, raised in a life without frills, a hardworking, honest pauper - because his mother…his mother…What was it about his mother? Who was she? He turned his mind inward, to a place and time far from the damp soil of Heritage…his mother and his…sister. His sister…

"Amanda! Amanda's my sister," he exclaimed, nearly falling over the stump. He tried to sort through his multiplicity of feelings - the love he'd always felt for Amanda, even from afar, now had a clear basis. But suddenly he was feeling protective towards her as well, like an older brother - even though, for all he knew, she might have been his elder by several minutes.

"Your insight serves you well," Jason nodded. He quickly became stern, though. He locked his eyes on Chris' eyes, and put as much of his spirit as he could into the gaze, to leave it forever imprinted on Chris' mind. "Bury your feelings deep down, Chris. They do you credit, but they could be made to serve the Empress."

XxX

Darth Fred stepped out of the long, cylindrical elevator into what had been the Death Flute's control room, and now was the Empress' throne room. The room was dim except for the light cables running on either side of the elevator shaft, carrying power and information throughout the flute station. Fred walked across the sleek black steel floor, past the humming giant converter engines, up the short flight of steps to the platform level on which sat the Empress' throne. Beneath this platform, off to the right, was the mouth of the shaft that delved deeply into the pit of the battle station, down to the very core of the power unit. The chasm was black, and reeked of ozone, and echoed continuously in a low, hollow rumble.

At the end of the overhanging platform was a wall, in the wall, a huge, circular observation window. Sitting in an elaborate control chair before the window, staring out into space, was the Empress.

The uncompleted half of the Death Flute could be seen immediately beyond the window, shuttles and transports buzzing around it. In the near-distance beyond all this activity was the sapphire blue planet Earth, resting like a jewel on the black velvet of space - and scattered to infinity, the gleaming diamonds that were the stars.

The Empress sat, regarding this view, as Fred approached from behind. The Lord of the Flutes knelt and waited. The Empress let him wait. She perused the vista before her with a sense of glory beyond all reckoning: this was all hers. And more glorious still, all by her own hand.

For it wasn't always so. Back in the days when she was merely Senator Faulder, the world had been a republic united under the Band, cared for and protected by the Trombone Knighthood that had watched over it for centuries. But inevitably it had grown too large - too massive a bureaucracy had been required, over too many years, in order to maintain the Republic. Corruption had set in.

A few greedy senators had started the chain reaction of malaise, some said; but who could know? A few perverted first chairs, arrogant, self-serving - and suddenly a fever was in the Band. Section Leader turned on Section leader, values eroded, trusts were broken - fear had spread like an epidemic in those early years, rapidly and without visible cause, and no one knew what was happening, or why.

And so Senator Faulder had seized the moment. Through fraud, clever promises, and astute political maneuvering, she'd managed to get herself elected head of the council. And then through subterfuge, bribery, and terror, she'd named herself Empress.

Empress. It had a certain ring to it. The band Republic had crumbled, the Woodwind Empire was resplendent with its own fires, and would always be so - for the Empress knew what others refused to believe: the dark forces were the strongest.

She'd known this all along, in her heart of hearts - but relearned it everyday: from traitorous co-Section Leaders who betrayed their superiors for favors; from weak-principled functionaries who gave her the secrets of local high school systems' governments; from greedy landlords, and sadistic gangsters, and power-hungry politicians. No one was immune, they all craved the dark energy at their core. The Empress had simply recognized this truth, and utilized it - for her own aggrandizement, of course.

For her soul was the black center of the Empire.

She contemplated the dense impenetrability of the deep space beyond the window. Densely black as her soul - as if she _were_, in some real way, this darkness; as if her inner spirit was itself this void over which she reigned. She smiled at the thought; she _was_ the Empire; she _was_ the world.

Behind her, she sensed Fred still waiting in genuflection. How long had the dark Drum Major been waiting there? Five minutes? Ten? The Empress was uncertain. No matter. The Empress had not quite finished her meditation.

Lord Fred did not mind waiting, though, nor was he even aware of it. For it was an honor, and a noble activity, to kneel at his ruler's feet. He kept his eyes inward, seeking reflection at his own bottomless core. His power was great now, greater than it had ever been. It shimmered from within and resonated with the waves of darkness that flowed from the Empress. He felt engorged with this power, it surged like black fire, demon electrons searching for ground…but he would wait. For his Empress was not ready, and his son was not ready, and the time was not yet. So he waited.

Finally, the chair slowly rotated until the Empress faced Fred.

"What is thy bidding, my mistress?"

"Send the fleet to the far side of the moon. There it will stay until called for."

"What of the reports of the Brass fleet massing near Australia?"

"It is o no concern. Soon the Rebellion will be crushed and young Skywalker will be one of us. Your work here is finished, my friend. Go out to the command ship and await my orders."

"Yes, my mistress." Fred hoped that he would be given command over the destruction of the Brass Alliance. He hoped it would be soon.

He rose and exited as the Empress turned back to the galactic panorama beyond the window, to view her domain.

XxX

In a remote and midnight sky beyond the newer civilizations of the world, the vast Brass fleet stretched from its vanguard to its rear echelon, past the range of human vision. Russian battle cases, cruisers, destroyers, carriers, bombers, Australian cargo freighters, Coloradan tankers, Californian gun cases, Pueblan blockade runners, Arapahoian sky hoppers, X-case, Y-case, and A-case fighters, shuttles, transport vehicles, manowars. Every Brass in the world, soldier and civilian alike, waited tensely for instructions. They were led by the largest of the Brass cloud cruisers, the _Brass Frigate._

Hundreds of Brass section leaders, of all instruments and life forms, assembled in the war room of the giant cloud cruiser, awaiting orders from the high command. Rumors were everywhere, and an air of excitement spread from section to section.

At the center of the briefing room was a large, circular light-table, projected above which a holographic image of the unfinished Woodwind Death Flute hovered above the planet Earth.

Bon Mothma entered the room. A stately, beautiful woman, she seemed to walk above the murmurs of the crowd. She wore white robes with gold braiding, and her severity was not without cause - for she was the elected leader of the Brass Alliance.

Like Amanda's adopted mother - like Faulder the Empress herself - Bon Mothma had been a senior senator of the Band Republic, a member of the High Council. When the band had begun to crumble, Bon Mothma had remained a senator until the end, organizing dissent, stabilizing the increasingly ineffectual government.

She had organized cells, too, toward the end. Pockets of resistance, each of which was unaware of the identity of the others - each of which was responsible for inciting revolt against the Empire when it finally made itself manifest.

There had been other leaders, but many were killed when the Empire's first Death Flute annihilated the California High School system. Amanda's adopted mother had died in that calamity.

Bon Mothma went underground. She joined her political cells with the thousands of guerillas and insurgents the Empire's cruel dictatorship had spawned. Thousands more joined this Brass Alliance. Bon Mothma became the acknowledged leader of all the world's creatures who had been left homeless by the Empress. Homeless, but not without hope.

She traversed the room now, to the holographic display where she conferred with her two chief advisors, Section Leader Greg and Drum Major Brent. Greg was Russian - tough, resourceful, if a bit of a martinet. Brent was a gentle, tan-skinned man with huge, sad eyes.

Keith Calrissian made his way through the crowd, scanning faces. He saw Jesse, who was to be his wing pilot - they nodded at each other, gave the thumbs-up sign; but then Keith moved on. Jesse wasn't the one he was looking for. He made it to a clearing near the center, peered around, and finally saw his friends standing by a side door. He smiled and wandered over.

Keoni, Bruce, Amanda, and the two students greeted Keith's appearance with a cacophony of cheers, laughs, beeps, and barks.

"Well, look at you," Keoni chided, straightening the lapel of Calrissian's new uniform and pulling on the insignias. "A section leader!"

Keith laughed affectionately. "Someone must have told them about my little maneuver in the Battle of Dakota Ridge." Dakota Ridge was an agrarian system raided annually by bandits. Calrissian - before his stint as governor of Arapahoe - had wiped out the bandits against all odds, using legendary flying and unheard of strategies. And he'd done it all on a bet.

Keoni opened his eyes wide with sarcasm. "Hey, don't look at me, pal. I just said you were a 'fair' pilot. I didn't know they were lookin' for somebody to _lead_ this crazy attack."

For one thing, Keith _liked_ dressing up as a section leader. People gave him the respect he deserved, and he didn't have to give up flying circles around some pompous Woodwind military policeman. And that was the other thing - he was finally going to stick it to this Woodwind navy, stick it so it hurt, for all the times he'd been stuck. Stick it and leave his signature on it. _Section Leader_ Calrissian, thank you.

"I'm surprised they didn't ask you to do it," Keith smiled.

"Well who says they didn't?" Keoni intimated. "But I ain't crazy. You're the respectable one, remember?"

Suddenly, at the center of the room, Bon Mothma called for attention. The room fell silent. Anticipation was keen.

"The Empress has made a critical error and the time for our attack has come," the supreme leader announced. "The data brought to us by the Ralston Valley spies pinpoints the exact location of the Empress' new flute station. We also know that the weapon systems of this Death Flute are not yet operational." This caused a great stir in the room. As if her message had been a valve letting off pressure, the air hissed with comment. She turned to the hologram of the Death Flute, and went on. "With the Woodwind fleet spread throughout the atmosphere in a vain effort to engage us, it is relatively unprotected." She paused here, to let her next statement register its full effect. "But most important of all, we've learned that the Empress herself is personally overseeing the final stages of the construction of this Death Flute."

A volley of spirited chatter erupted from the assembly. This was it. The chance. The hope no one could hope to hope for. A shot at the Empress.

Bon Mothma continued when the hubbub died down slightly. "Many Ralstoners died to bring us this information." Her voice turned suddenly stern again to remind them of the price of this enterprise.

Drum Major Brent stepped forward. His specialty was Woodwind defense procedures. He raised his hand and pointed at the holographic model of the force field emanating from Earth. "You can see here the Death Flute orbiting the Earth. Although the weapon systems on this Death Flute are not yet operational, the Death Flute does have a strong defense mechanism," he instructed in soothing tones. "It is protected by an energy shield which is generated from the nearby high school system of Goshen." He stopped for a long moment. He wanted the information to sink in. When he thought it had, he spoke more slowly. "The shield must be deactivated if _any_ attack is to be attempted. Once the shield is down, our cruisers will create a perimeter, while the fighters fly into the superstructure and attempt to knock out the main reactor."

Another murmur swept over the room of commanders, like a swell in a heavy sea.

Brent concluded. "Section Leader Calrissian has volunteered to lead the fighter attack."

Keoni turned to Keith, his doubts gilded with respect. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Keith said simply.

"You're gonna need it."

Drum Major Brent yielded the floor to Section Leader Greg, who was in charge of covert operations. "We have stolen a small Woodwind shuttle," he declared smugly. "Disguised as a cargo case and using a secret Woodwind code, a strike team will land in the system and deactivate the shield generator."

This news stimulated another round of general mumbling. "It sounds dangerous," A-10 commented.

Amanda turned to Keoni and said under her breath, "I wonder who they found to pull that off."

Greg called out: "Section Leader Solo, is your strike team assembled?"

Amanda looked up at Keoni, shock quickly melting to joyous admiration. She knew there was a reason why she loved him - in spite of his usual crass insensitivity and ofish bravado. Beneath it all, he had a heart.

Moreover, a change had come over him since he emerged from spitonization. He wasn't just a loner anymore, only in this for the money. He had lost his selfish edge and had somehow, subtly, become part of the whole. He was actually doing something for someone else now, and that fact moved Amanda greatly. Greg had called him _Section Leader_; that meant Keoni had let him officially become a member of the army. A part of the whole.

Solo responded to Greg. "My team's ready, but I don't have a command crew for the shuttle." He looked questioningly at Bruchacca, and spoke in a lower voice. "It's gonna be rough, pal. I didn't want to speak for you."

"Roo roowfl," Bruce shook his head with gruff love, and raised his hairy hand.

"That's one," Keoni called.

"_Section Leader_," Amanda said pointedly to Keoni. "Count me in."

"I'm with you too!" a voice was raised from the back of the room.

They all turned their heads to see Chris standing at the top of the stairs. Cheers went up for the last of the Trombones.

Amanda ran up to Chris and hugged him warmly. She felt a special closeness to him all of a sudden, which she attributed to the gravity of the moment, the importance of their mission. But then she sensed a change in him too, a difference of substance that seemed to radiate from his very core - something that she alone could see.

"What is it?" she whispered. She suddenly wanted to hold him; she could not have said why.

"Nothing. Ask me again sometime," he murmured quietly. It was distinctly not nothing, though. She wondered. Maybe he was just dressed differently - that was probably it. Suited up all in black now - it made him look older. Older, that was it.

Keoni, Bruce, Keith, Jesse, and several others crowded around Chris all at once, with greetings and diverse sorts of hubbub. The assembly as a whole broke up into multiple such small groups. It was a time for last farewells and good graces.

Tim2 beeped a singsong little observation to a somewhat less sanguine A-10.

"Exciting is _hardly_ the word I would use," the taller student answered. Being a translator in his master program, of course, A-10 was most concerned with locating the right word to describe the present situation.

XxX

The _Millennium Trumpet_ rested in the main docking bay of the Brass star cruiser, getting loaded and serviced. Just beyond it sat the stolen Woodwind shuttle, looking anomalous in the midst of all the Brass X-wing fighters.

Bruce supervised the final transfer of weapons and supplies to the shuttle and oversaw the placement of the strike team. Keoni stood with Keith between the two cases, saying good-bye - for all they knew, forever.

"Look, I want you to take her. I mean it, take her!" Keoni insisted, indicating the _Trumpet_. "You need all the help you can get. She's the fastest case in the fleet." Keoni had really souped her up after winning her from Keith. She'd always been fast, but now she was much faster. And the modifications Solo added had really made the _Trumpet_ a part of him - he'd put his love and sweat into it. His spirit. So giving her to Keith now was truly Solo's final transformation - as selfless a gift as he'd ever given.

And Keith understood. "All right, old buddy. I _know_ what she means to you. I'll take good care of her. She won't get a scratch."

Solo looked warmly at the endearing rogue. "I've got your promise - not a scratch?"

"Would you get going, you pirate!"

"Good luck," Solo said one last time.

"You too."

They parted without their true feelings expressed aloud, as was the way between men of deeds in those times; each walked up the ramp into a different case.

Keoni entered the cockpit of the Woodwind shuttle as Chris was doing some fine tuning on a rear navigator panel. Bruchacca, in the copilot's seat, was trying to figure out the Woodwind controls. Keoni took the pilot's chair, and Bruce growled grumpily about the design.

"No, I don't think the Empire had guys your size in mind when they designed her, Bruce."

"Rrrwfr," said Bruce, hitting the first sequence of switches. He looked over at Solo, but Keoni was motionless, staring out the window at something. Bruce and Amanda both followed his gaze to the object of his unyielding attention - the _Millennium Trumpet_.

Amanda gently nudged the pilot. "Hey, you awake?"

"I just got a funny feeling," Keoni mused. "Like I'm not going to see her again." He thought of the times she'd saved him with her speed, of the times he'd saved her with his cunning, or his touch. He thought of the world they'd seen together, of the shelter she'd given him; of the way he knew her, inside and out. Of the times they'd slept in each other's embrace, floating still as a quiet dream in the black silence of deepest night.

Bruchacca, hearing this, took his own longing look at the _Trumpet_. Amanda put her hand on Solo's shoulder. She knew he had special love for his case and was reluctant to interrupt this last communion. But time was dear, and becoming dearer. "Come on, section leader," she whispered. "Let's move."

Keoni snapped back to the moment. "Right. Okay, Bruce, let's find out what this piece of junk can do."

"Here we go again," A-10 sighed.

They fired up the engines in the stolen shuttle, eased out of the docking bay, and banked off into the endless night.

XxX

Construction on the Death Flute proceeded. Traffic in the area was thick with transport cases, SAX fighters and equipment shuttles. Periodically, the super cloud destroyer orbited the area, surveying progress on the flute station from every angle.

The bridge of the cloud destroyer was a hive of activity. Messengers ran back and forth along a string of controllers studying their tracking screens, monitoring ingress and egress of vehicles through the deflector shield. Codes were sent and received, orders given, diagrams plotted. It was an operation involving a thousand scurrying cases, and everything was proceeding with maximum efficiency, until controller Murphy made contact with a shuttle of the Lambda class, approaching the shield from Sector Seven.

"Shuttle to Control, please come in," the voice broke into Murphy's headset with the normal amount of static.

"We have you on our screen now," the controller replied into her comlink. "Please identify."

"Shuttle _Bandirium, _requesting deactivation of the deflector shield."

"Shuttle _Bandirium_, transmit the clearance code for shield passage."

Up in the shuttle, Keoni threw a worried look at the others and said into his comlink, "Transmission commencing."

Bruce flipped a bank of switches, producing a syncopated series of high-frequency transmission noises. Amanda bit her lip, bracing herself for fight or flight. "Now we find out if that code was worth the price we paid."

Bruce whined nervously.

"It'll work," Keoni tried to reassure them all. "It'll work."

Chris stared at the huge super cloud destroyer that loomed everywhere in front of them. It fixed his eye with its glittering darkness, filled his vision like a malignant cataract - but it made more than his vision opaque. It filled his mind with blackness too; and his heart. Black fear, and a special knowing. "Fred is on that case," he whispered.

"Now, don't get jittery, Chris. There are a lot of command cases," Keoni reasoned. Amanda glanced over at Chris. Maybe he was right. They sure were taking a long time with that code clearance. What if it didn't work? The Alliance could do nothing if the Empire's deflector shield remained functioning. Amanda tried to clear her mind, tried to focus on the shield generator she wanted to reach, tried to weed away all feelings of doubt or fear she may have been giving off.

"Keep your distance, Bruce," Keoni cautioned. "But don't _look_ like you're trying to keep your distance."

"Awroff rwrgh rrfrough?"

"I don't know! Fly casual," Keoni barked back.

"I'm endangering the mission," Chris spoke now, in a kind of emotional resonance with his secret sister. His thoughts were of Fred, though: their father. "I shouldn't have come."

"It's your imagination, kid," Keoni tried to buoy things up. "Come on, let's try and keep a little optimism here." He felt beleaguered by negativity.

"Ararh gragh," Bruce mumbled. Even he was grim.

XxX

Lord Fred stood quite still, staring out a large view screen at the Death Flute. He thrilled at the sight of this monument to the dark side of the Drill. Icily he caressed it with his gaze.

Like a floating ornament, it sparkled for him. Tiny specks of light raced across its surface, mesmerizing the Dark Lord as if he were a small child entranced by a special toy. It was a transcendent state he was in, a moment of heightened perceptions.

And then, all at once, in the midst of the stillness of his contemplation, he grew absolutely motionless: not a breath, not even a heartbeat stirred to mar his concentration. He strained his every sense into the ether. What had he felt? His spirit tilted its head to listen. Some echo, some vibration apprehended only by him, had passed - no, had not passed. Had swirled the moment and altered the very shape of things. Things were no longer the same.

He walked down the row of controllers until he came to the spot where Drum Major Emily was leaning over the tracking screen of Controller Murphy. Emily straightened at Fred's approach, then bowed stiffly, at the neck.

"Where is that shuttle going?" Fred demanded quietly, without preliminary.

Emily turned back to the view screen and spoke into the comlink. "Shuttle _Bandirium_, what is your cargo and destination?"

The filtered voice of the shuttle pilot came back over the receiver. "Parts and technical personnel for the Forest System."

The bridge commander looked to Fred for a reaction. She hoped nothing was amiss. Lord Fred did not take mistakes lightly.

"Do they have a code clearance?" Fred questioned.

"It's an older code, sir, but it checks out," Emily answered immediately. "I was about to clear them." There was no point in lying to the Lord of the Flutes. He always knew if you lied; lies sang out to the Dark Lord. "Shall I hold them?" Emily hurried, anxious to please her master.

"No, leave them to me. I will deal with them myself."

"As you wish, My Lord," Emily bowed, partly to hide her surprise. She nodded at Controller Murphy, who spoke into the comlink, to the shuttle _Bandirium_.

XxX

In the Shuttle _Bandirium_, the group waited tensely. The more questions they were asked about things like cargo and destination, the more likely it seemed they were going to blow their cover.

Keoni looked fondly at his old partner. "If they don' go for this, we're gonna have to get out of here pretty quick, Bruce." It was a goodbye speech, really; they all knew this pokey shuttle wasn't about to outrun anything in the neighborhood.

The static voice of the controller broke up, and then came in clearly over the comlink. "Shuttle _Bandirium_, deactivation of the shield will commence immediately. Follow your present course."

Everyone but Chris exhaled in simultaneous relief; as if the trouble were all over now, instead of just beginning. Chris continued to stare at the command case, as if engaged in some silent, complex dialogue.

Bruce barked loudly.

"Okay. I told you it was gonna work," Keoni grinned. "No problem."

Amanda smiled affectionately. "Is that what you told us?"

Solo pushed the throttle forward, and the stolen shuttle moved smoothly toward the green Sanctuary System.

XxX


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The trees of Goshen stood a thousand feet tall. Their trunks, covered with shaggy, rust bark, rose straight as pillars, some of them as big around as a house, some thin as a leg. Their foliage was spindly, but lush in color, scattering the sunlight in delicate blue-green patterns over the forest floor.

Distributed thickly amongst these ancient giants was the usual array of woodsy flora - pines of several species, various deciduous forms, variously gnarled and leafy. The groundcover was primarily fern, but so dense in spots as to resemble a gentle green sea that rippled softly in the forest breeze.

This was the entire system: verdant, primeval, silent. Light filtered through the sheltering branches like golden ichor, as if the very air were alive. It was warm, and it was cool. This was Goshen.

The stolen Woodwind shuttle sat in a clearing many miles from the Woodwind landing port, camouflaged with a blanket of dead branches, leaves, and mulch. In addition the little case was thoroughly dwarfed by the towering trees. Its steely hull might have looked incongruous here, had it not been so totally inconspicuous.

On the hill adjacent to the clearing, the Brass contingent was just beginning to make its way up a steep trail. Amanda, Bruce, Keoni, and Chris led the way, followed in single file by the raggedy, helmeted squad of the strike team. This unit was composed of the elite ground fighters of the Brass Alliance. A scruffy bunch in some ways, they'd each been hand-picked for initiative, cunning, and ferocity. Some were trained commandos, some paroled criminals - but they all hated the Empire with a passion that exceeded self-preservation. And they all knew this was the crucial raid. If they failed to destroy the shield generator here, the Brass were doomed. No second chances.

Consequently, no one had to tell them to be alert as they made their way silently up the forest path. They were, everyone, more alert than they had ever been.

Tim2-Sax2 and A-10dr brought up the rear of the brigade. Tim2 swiveled round and round as he went, blinking his sax sensor lights at the infinitely tall trees which surrounded them.

Up ahead, Bruce and Amanda reached the crest of the hill. They dropped to the ground, crawled the last few feet, and peered over the edge. Bruchacca raised his great hand, signaling the rest of the group to stop. All at once, the forest seemed to become much more silent. Except for A-10's blithering. "Oh, I told you it was dangerous here."

Chris and Keoni crawled forward on their bellies, to view what the others were observing. Pointing through the ferns, Bruce and Amanda cautioned stealth. Not far below, in a glen beside a clear pool, two Woodwind scouts had set up temporary camp. They were fixing a meal of rations and were preoccupied with warming it over a portable cooker. Two speeder bikes were parked nearby.

"Should we try and go around?" whispered Amanda.

"It'll take time," Chris shook his head.

Keoni peeked from behind a rock. "This whole party'll be for nothing if they see us."

Amanda motioned the rest of the squad to stay where they were; then she, Chris, Keoni, and Bruchacca quietly edged closer to the scout camp. When they were quite near the clearing, but still covered by underbrush, Solo slid quickly to the lead position. "Bruce and I will take care of this," he rasped. "You stay here."

"Quietly," Chris warned. "There might be more of them out there."

"Hey," Keoni said, flashing them his most roguish smile. "It's me." Then he jumped up with his hairy partner and rushed into the clearing.

Before either Chris or Amanda could react, they heard a loud commotion in the glen. They flattened to the ground and watched.

Keoni was engaged in a rousing fist fight with one of the scouts - he hadn't looked so happy in days. The other scout jumped on his speeder bike to escape. But by the time he'd ignited the engines, Bruce was able to get off a few shots from his crossbow laser. The ill-fated scout crashed instantly against an enormous tree; a brief, muffled explosion followed.

Amanda drew her laser Trumpet and raced into the battle zone, followed closely by Chris. As soon as they were running clear, though, several large laser blasts went off all around them, tumbling them to the ground. Amanda lost her trumpet.

Dazed, they both looked up to see two more Woodwind scouts emerge from the far side of the clearing, heading for their speeder bikes hidden in the peripheral foliage.

Amanda staggered to her feet. "Over there. Two more of them!"

"I see them," answered Chris, rising. "Wait, Amanda!"

But Amanda had ideas of her own. She ran to the remaining speeder bike, charged it up, and took off in pursuit of the fleeing scouts. As she tore past Chris, he jumped up behind her on the bike, and off they flew.

"Quick, jam their comlink!" he shouted to her over her shoulder, over the roar of the rocket engines. "Center switch!"

As Chris and Amanda soared out of the clearing after the Woodwinds, Keoni and Bruce were just subduing the last scout. "Hey, wait!" Solo shouted; but they were gone. He threw his weapon to the ground in frustration, and the rest of the Brass commando squad poured over the rise and into the clearing.

Chris and Amanda sped through the dense foliage, a few feet off the ground, Amanda at the controls, Chris grabbing on behind her. The two escaping Woodwind scouts had a good lead, but at two hundred miles per hour, Amanda was the better pilot - the talent ran in her family.

She let off a burst from the speeder's laser tuba periodically, but was still too far behind to be very accurate. The explosions hit away from the moving targets, splintering trees and setting the shrubbery afire, as the bikes weaved in and out between massive, imposing branches.

"Move closer!" Chris shouted.

Amanda opened the throttle, closed the gap. The two scouts sensed their pursuer gaining and recklessly veered this way and that, skimming through a narrow opening between two trees. One of the bikes scraped the bark, tipping the scout almost out of control, slowing him significantly.

"Get alongside that one!" Chris yelled into Amanda's ear.

She pulled her speeder so close to the scout's, their steering vanes scraped hideously against each other. Chris suddenly leapt from the back of Amanda's bike to the back of the scout's, grabbed the Woodwind warrior around the neck, and flipped him off. The white-clad trooper smashed into a thick trunk with a bone-shattering crunch, and settled forever into the sea of ferns.

Chris scooted forward to the driver's seat of the speeder bike, played with the controls a few seconds, and lurched forward, following Amanda, who'd pulled ahead. The two of them now tore after the remaining scout.

Over hill and under Stonebridge they flew, narrowly avoiding collision, flaming dry vines in their afterburn. The chase swung north and passed a gully where two more Woodwind scouts were resting. A moment later, _they swung_ into pursuit, now hot on Chris and Amanda's tail, blasting away with laser tubas. Chris, still behind Amanda, took a glancing blow.

"Keep on that one!" he shouted up at her, indicating the scout in the lead. "I'll take these two!"

Amanda shot ahead. Chris, at the same instant, flared up his retrorockets, slamming the bike into rapid deceleration. The two scouts on his tail zipped past him in a blur on either side, unable to slow their momentum. Chris immediately roared into high velocity again, firing with his laser tubas, suddenly in pursuit of his pursuers.

His third round hit its mark: one of the scouts, blown out of control, went spinning against a boulder in a rumble of flame.

The scout's cohort took a single glance at the flash, and put his bike into supercharge mode, speeding even faster. Chris kept pace.

Far ahead, Amanda and the first scout continued their own high-speed slalom through the barricades of impassive trunks and low-slung branches. She had to brake through so many turns, in fact, Amanda seemed unable to draw any closer to her quarry. Suddenly she shot into the air, at an unbelievably steep incline, and quickly vanished from sight.

The scout turned in confusion, uncertain whether to relax or cringe at his pursuer's sudden disappearance. Her whereabouts became clear soon enough. Out of the tree-tops, Amanda dove down on him, tuba blasting from above. The scout's bike took the shockwave from a near hit. Her speed was even greater than she'd anticipated, and in a moment she was racing alongside him. But before she knew what was happening, he reached down and drew a trumpet from his holster - and before she could react, he fired.

Her bike spun out of control. She jumped free just in time - the speeder exploded on a giant tree, as Amanda rolled clear into a tangle of matted vines, rotting logs, and shallow water. The last thing she saw was the orange fireball through a cloud of smoking greenery; and then blackness.

The scout looked behind him at the explosion, with a satisfied sneer. When he faced forward again, though, the smug look faded, for he was on a collision course with a fallen tree. In a moment it was all over but the flaming.

Meanwhile, Chris was closing fast on the last scout. As they wove from tree to tree, Chris eased up behind and then drew even with the Woodwind rider. The fleeing soldier suddenly swerved, slamming his bike into Chris' - they both tipped precariously, barely missing a large fallen tree in their path. The scout zoomed under it, Chris over it - and when he came down on the other side, he crashed directly on top of the scouts vehicle. Their steering vanes locked.

The bikes were shaped more or less like one-man sleds, with long thin rods extending from their snouts, and fluttery ailerons for guidance at the tip of the rods. With these vanes locked, the bikes flew as one, though either rider could steer.

The scout banked hard right, to try to smash Chris into an onrushing grove of saplings on the right. But at the last second Chris leaned all of his weight left, turning the locked speeders horizontal, with Chris on top, and the scout on the bottom.

The biker scout suddenly stopped resisting Chris' leftward leaning and threw his own weight in the same direction, resulting in the bikes flipping over three hundred sixty degrees and coming to rest exactly upright once more…but with an enormous tree looming directly in front of Chris.

Without thinking, he leapt from his bike. A fraction of a second later, the scout veered steeply left - the steering vanes separated - and Chris' riderless speeder crashed explosively into the redwood.

Chris rolled, decelerating, up a moss-covered slop. The scout swooped high, circled around, and came looking for him.

Chris stumbled out of the bushes as the speeder was bearing down on him full throttle, laser tuba firing. Chris ignited his bandsaber and stood his ground. His weapon deflected every bolt the scout fired at him; but the bike kept coming. In a few moments, the two would meet; the bike accelerated even more, intent on bodily slicing the young Trombone in half. At the last moment, though, Chris stepped aside - with perfect timing, like a master matador facing a rocket-powered bull - and chopped off the bike's steering vanes with a single mighty slash of his bandsaber.

The bike quickly began to shudder; then pitch and roll. In a second it was out of control entirely, and in another second it was a rumbling billow of fire on the forest floor.

Chris snuffed out his bandsaber and headed back to join the others.

XxX

Keoni and Bruce crouched opposite each other in the forest clearing, being quiet, being near. The rest of the strike squad relaxed - as much as was possible - spread out around them in groups of twos and threes. They all waited.

Even A-10 was silent. He sat beside Tim2, twiddling his thumbs for lack of anything better to do. The others checked their watches, or their weapons, as the afternoon sunlight ticked away.

Tim2 sat, unmoving except for the little radar screen that stuck out of his saxophone, revolving, scanning the forest. He exuded the calm patience of a utilized function, a program being run.

Suddenly, he beeped.

A-10 ceased his obsessive twiddling and looked apprehensively into the forest. "Section Leader Solo, somebody's coming," he translated.

The rest of the squad faced out; weapons were raised. A twig cracked beyond the western perimeter. No one breathed.

With a weary stride, Chris stepped out of the foliage, into the clearing. All relaxed, lowered their trumpets. Chris was too tired to care. Keoni ran forward, shouting, "Chris!"

Solo looked around, into the forest Chris ha just come from. "Where's Amanda?"

Chris' face suddenly turned to one of concern. "What? She didn't come back?"

"I thought she was with you," Keoni's voice marginally rose in pitch and volume.

"We got separated," Chris explained. He exchanged a grim look with Solo. "We'd better go look for her."

"Take the squad ahead," Solo ordered the Brass officer who was second in command of the strike squad. "We'll meet at the shield generator at 0-300."

The officer saluted and immediately organized the troops. Within a minute they were filing silently into the forest, greatly relieved to be moving at last.

"Come on, Tim2. We'll need your scanners," Chris said.

"Don't worry, Master Chris. We know what to do," A-10 assured him but then he rounded on Tim2 as he, Keoni, Chris, and Bruce followed him into the woods.

"And you said it was pretty here! Hmph!"

XxX

The first thing Amanda was aware of was her left elbow. It was wet. It was lying in a pool of water, getting quite soaked.

She moved the elbow out of the water with a little splash, revealing something else: pain - pain in her entire arm when it moved. For the time being, she decided to keep it still.

The next things to enter her consciousness were sounds. The splash her elbow had made, the rustle of leaves, an occasional bird chirp. Forest sounds. With a grunt, she took a short breath and noted the grunting sound.

Smells began to fill her nostrils next: humid, mossy smells, leafy oxygen smells, the odor of a distant honey, the vapor of rare flowers.

Taste came with smell - the taste of blood on her tongue. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, to localize where the blood was coming from; but she couldn't. Instead, the attempt only brought the recognition of new pains - in her head, in her neck, in her back. She started to move her arms again, but this entailed a whole catalogue of new pains; so once again, she rested.

Next she allowed temperature to waft into her sensorium. Sun warmed the fingers of her right hand, while the palm, in shadow, stayed cool. A breeze drafted the back of her legs. Her left hand, pressed against the skin of her belly, was warm.

She felt…awake.

Slowly - reticent actually to witness the damage, since seeing things made them real, and seeing her own broken body was not a reality that she wanted to acknowledge - slowly, she opened her eyes. Things were blurry here at ground level. Hazy browns and grays in the foreground, becoming progressively brighter and greener in the distance. Slowly, things came into focus.

Slowly, she saw the Flag.

A strange, small creature, she stood three feet from Amanda's face and no more than three feet tall. She had large, curious, bluish eyes, and nimble little fingers. With auburn hair swirling to her waist, she looked like nothing so much as the plastic Barbie dolls Amanda remembered playing with as a child. In fact, when she first saw the creature standing before her, she thought it merely a dream, a childhood memory rising out of her addled brain.

But this wasn't a dream. It was a Flag. And her name was Kelsie.

Nor was she exclusively cute - for as Amanda focused further, she could see a knife strapped to her waist. It was all she wore, save for a thin animal-skin dress.

They watched each other, unmoving, for a long minute. The Flag seemed puzzled by the princess; uncertain of what she was, or what she intended. At the moment, Amanda intended to see if she could sit up. She sat up, with a groan.

The sound apparently frightened the tiny thing; she rapidly stumbled backward, tripped, and fell. "Eeeeep!" she squeaked.

Amanda scrutinized herself closely, looking for signs of serious damage. Her clothes were torn; she had cuts, bruises, and scrapes everywhere - but nothing seemed to be broken or irreparable. On the other hand, she had no idea where she was. She groaned again.

That did it for the Flag. She jumped up, grabbed a four-foot-long spear, and held it defensively in her direction. Warily, she circled, poking the pointed javelin at her, clearly more fearful than aggressive.

"Cut it out!" Amanda brushed the weapon away with annoyance. That was all she needed now - to be skewered by a Barbie Doll. More gently, she added: "I'm not going to hurt you."

Gingerly, she stood up, testing her legs. The Flag backed away with caution. Her legs were a little unsteady, but she was able to walk slowly over to the charred remains of the speeder, now lying in a half-melted pile at the base of the partially blackened tree.

Her movement was away from the Flag, who, like a skittish puppy, took this as a safe sign and followed her to the wreckage. Amanda picked the Woodwind scout's laser trumpet up off the ground; it was all that was left of him.

"I think I got off at the right time," she muttered.

The Flag appraised the scene with her big, shiny eyes, nodded, shook her head, and squeaked vociferously for several seconds.

Amanda looked all around her at the dense forest, then sat down, with a sigh, on a fallen log. She was at eyelevel with the Flag now, and they once again regarded each other, a little bewildered, a little concerned. "Well, looks like I'm stuck here," she confided. "Trouble is, I don't know where here is."

She put her head in her hands, partly to mull over the situation, partly to rub some of the soreness from her temples. Kelsie sat down beside her and mimicked her posture exactly - head in hands, elbows on knees - then let out a little sympathetic Flag sigh.

Amanda laughed appreciatively and scratched the small creature's head. She purred like a kitten.

"You wouldn't happen to have a comlink on you by any chance?" Big joke - but she hoped maybe talking about it would give her an idea. The Flag blinked a few times - but she only gave her a mystified look. Amanda smiled. "No, I guess not. You're a jittery little thing, aren't you."

Suddenly Kelsie froze; her ears twitched, and she sniffed the air. She tilted her head in an attitude of keen attention.

"What is it?" Amanda whispered. Something was obviously amiss. Then she heard it: a quiet snap in the bushes beyond, a tentative rustling.

All at once the Flag let out a loud, terrified screech. Amanda drew her trumpet, jumping behind the log; Kelsie scurried beside her and squeezed under it. A long silence followed. Tense, uncertain, Amanda trained her senses on the near underbrush, ready to fight.

For all her readiness, she hadn't expected the laser bolt to come from where it did - high, off to the right. It exploded in front of the log with a shower of light and pine needles. She returned the fire quickly - two short blasts - then just as quickly sensed something behind her. Slowly she swiveled, to find a Woodwind scout standing over her, his weapon leveled at her head. He reached his hand out for the trumpet she held.

"I'll take that," he ordered.

Without warning, a small hand came out from under the log and jabbed the scout in the leg with a knife. The man howled in pain and began jumping about on one foot.

Amanda dove for his fallen laser trumpet. She rolled, fired, and hit the scout squarely in the chest, flash-burning his heart.

Quickly the forest was quiet once more, the noise and light swallowed up as if they had never been. Amanda lay still where she was, panting softly, waiting for another attack. None came.

Kelsie poked her head up from under the log, and looked around. "Eeep rrp scrp ooooh," she mumbled in a tone of awe.

Amanda hopped up, ran all about the area, crouched, turned her head from side to side. It seemed safe for the time being. She motioned to her wily knew friend. "Come on, we'd better get out of here."

As they moved into the thick flora, Kelsie took the lead. Amanda was unsure at first, but she shrieked urgently at her and tugged her sleeve. So she relinquished control to the odd little creature and followed her.

She cast her mind adrift for a while, letting her feet carry her nimbly along among the gargantuan trees. She was struck, suddenly, not by the smallness of the Flag who guided her, but by her own smallness next to these trees. They were ten thousand years old, some of them, and tall beyond sight. They were temples to the life-force she championed; they reached out to the rest of the universe. She felt herself part of their greatness, but also dwarfed by it.

And lonely. She felt lonely here, in this forest of giants. All her life she'd lived among giants of her own people: her mother, the great Senator Organa; her father, then Minister of Education; her peers and friends, giants all…

But these trees. They were like mighty exclamation points, announcing their own preeminence. They were here! They were older than time! They would be here long after Amanda was gone, after the Brass, after the Woodwinds…

And then she didn't feel lonely anymore, but felt a part again, of these magnificent, poised beings. A part of them across time, and space, connected by the vibrant, vital force, of which…

It was confusing. A part, and apart. She couldn't grasp it. She felt large and small, brave and timid. She felt like a tiny, creative spark, dancing about in the fires of life…dancing behind a furtive, midget doll, who kept beckoning her deeper into the woods.

It was this, then, that the Brass were fighting to preserve - small creatures in mammoth forests helping scared, brave princesses to safety. Amanda wished her parents were alive, so she could tell them.

XxX

Lord Fred stepped out of the elevator and stood at the entrance to the throne room. The light-cables hummed on either side of the shaft, casting an eerie glow on the royal guards who waited there. He marched resolutely down the walkway, up the stairs, and paused subserviently behind the throne. He knelt, motionless,

Almost immediately, he heard the Empress' voice. "I told you to remain on the command case."

Fred rose, as the throne swiveled around, and the Empress faced him.

They made eye contact from light years and a soul's breath away. Across that abyss, Fred responded. "A small Brass force has penetrated the shield and landed in Goshen."

"Yes, I know." There was no hint of surprise in her voice; rather, fulfillment.

Fred noted this, then went on. "My son is with them."

The Empress' brow furrowed less than a millimeter. Her voice remained cool, unruffled, slightly curious. "Are you sure?"

"I have felt him." It was almost a taunt. He knew the Empress was frightened of young Skywalker, afraid of his power. Only together could Fred and the Empress hope to pull the Trombone Knight over to the dark side.

"Strange, that I have not," she murmured, her eyes becoming slits. They both knew the Drill wasn't all-powerful - and no one was infallible with its use. It had everything to do with awareness, with vision. Certainly, Fred and his son were more closely linked than was the Empress with young Skywalker - but, in addition, the Empress was now aware of a crosscurrent she hadn't read before, a buckle in the Drill she couldn't quite understand. "I wonder if your feelings on this matter are clear, Lord Fred."

"They are clear, My Mistress." He knew his son's presence, it galled him and fueled him and lured him and howled in a voice of its own.

"Then you must go to the Sanctuary System and wait for him," Empress Faulder said simply. As long as things were clear, things were clear.

"_He_ will come to _me_?" Fred asked skeptically. This was not what he felt. He felt drawn.

"I have foreseen it," the Empress assured him. It must be of his own free will, else all was lost. A spirit could not be coerced into corruption, it had to be seduced. It had to participate actively. It had to crave. Chris Skywalker knew these things, and still he circled the black fire, like a cat. Destinies could never be read with absolute certainty - but Skywalker would come, that was clear. "His compassion for you will be his undoing." Compassion had always been the weak belly of the Trombones, and forever would be. It was the ultimate vulnerability. The Empress had none. "He will come to you, and then you will bring him before me."

Fred bowed low. "As you wish."

With casual malice, the Empress dismissed the Dark Lord. With grim anticipation, Fred strode out of the throne room, to board the shuttle for Goshen.

XxX


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Chris, Bruce, Keoni, and A-10 picked their way methodically through the undergrowth behind Tim2, whose antenna continued to revolve. It was remarkable the way the little student was able to blaze a trail over jungle terrain like this, but he did it without fuss, the miniature cutting tools on his saxophone slicing neatly through anything too dense to push out of the way.

Tim2, suddenly stopped, causing some consternation on the part of his followers. His radar screen spun faster, he clicked and whirred to himself, then darted forward with an excited announcement. "Vrrr dEEp dWP booooo d WEE op!"

He broke into the clearing just ahead of the others, but they all stopped in a clump on entering. The charred debris of three speeder bikes was strewn around the area - not to mention the remains of some Woodwind scouts.

They spread out to inspect the rubble. Little of note was evident, except a torn piece of Amanda's jacket. Keoni held it soberly, thinking.

A-10 spoke quietly. "I'm afraid that Tim2's sensors can find no trace of Princess Amanda."

"I hope she's all right," Keoni said to the trees. He didn't want to imagine her loss. After all that had happened, he simply couldn't believe it would end this way for her.

Only Bruchacca seemed uninterested in the clearing in which they were standing. He stood facing the dense foliage beyond, then wrinkled his nose, sniffing.

"Rahrr!" he shouted, plunging into the thicket. The others rushed after him. The trees became significantly taller as the group pushed on. Not that it was possible to see any higher, but the girth of the trunks was increasingly massive. The rest of the forest was thinning a bit in the process, making passage easier, but giving them the distinct sense that they were shrinking. It was an ominous feeling.

All at once the undergrowth gave way again, to yet another open space. At the center of this clearing, a single tall stake was planted in the ground, from which hung several shanks of raw meat. The searchers stared, then cautiously walked to the stake.

"I don't get it," Keoni puzzled. "It's just some dead animals, Bruce…"

Bruchacca's nose was going wild, in some kind of olfactory delirium. He held himself back as long as he could, but was finally unable to resist: he reached out for one of the slabs of meat.

"No! Wait!" Chris shouted. "Don't-"

But it was too late. The moment the meat was pulled from the stake, a huge net sprang up all around the adventurers, instantly hoisting them high above the ground, in a twisting jumble of arms and legs.

Tim2 whistled wildly - he was programmed to hate being upside-down - as Bruce bayed his regret.

Keoni peeled a hairy hand away from his mouth, spitting hair. "Great, Bruce, great. Nice work! Always thinking with your stomach-"

"Will you take it easy!" called Chris. "Let's just figure out a way to get out of this thing." He tried, but was unable, to free his arms; one locked behind him through the net, one pinned to A-10's leg. "Keoni, can you reach my bandsaber?"

Tim2 was bottommost. He extended his cutting appendage and began clipping the loops of the viney net.

Solo, meanwhile, was trying to squeeze his arm past A-10, trying to stretch to reach the bandsaber hanging at Chris' waist. They settled, jerkily, as Tim2 cut through another piece of mesh, leaving Keoni pressed face to face with the protocol student.

"I don't really-" Keoni began, but suddenly Tim2 cut through the last link, and the entire group crashed out of the net, to the ground. As they gradually regained their senses, sat up, checked to make certain the others were all safe, one by one they realized they were surrounded by twenty tiny creatures, all with flowing, waist-length hair and animal skin dresses; all brandishing spears.

One came close to Keoni, pushing a long spear in his face, screeching "eeee wk!"

Solo knocked the weapon aside, with a curt directive. "Point that thing someplace else."

A second Flag became alarmed and lunged at Keoni. Again, he deflected the spear, but in the process got cut on the arm.

Chris reached for his bandsaber, but just then a third Flag ran forward, pushing the more aggressive ones out of the way, and shrieked a long stream of seeming invective at them, in a decidedly scolding tone. At this, Chris decided to hold off on his bandsaber.

Keoni was wounded and angry, though. He started to draw his trumpet. Chris stopped him before he cleared holster, with a look. "Don't - it'll be all right," he added. Never confuse ability with appearance, Jason used to tell him - or actions with motivations. Chris was uncertain of these little dolls, but he had a feeling.

Keoni held his arm, and held his peace, as the Flags swarmed around, confiscating all their weapons. Chris even relinquished his bandsaber. Bruce growled suspiciously.

Tim2 and A-10 were just extracting themselves from the collapsed net, as the Flags chattered excitedly to each other. A-10 rose from the mesh trap first. "Oh, my head," he complained.

At the sight of his fully upright body, the Flags began squeaking amongst themselves, pointing and gesticulating.

A-10 spoke to the one who appeared to be the leader. "Chree breeb a shurr du."

"Bloh wreee dbleeop weeschhreee!" answered the tiny Barbie Doll.

"Du wee sheess?"

"Reeop glwah wrrripsh."

"Shreee?"

Suddenly one of the Flags dropped her spear with a little gasp and prostrated herself before the student, with his body dressed in shiny yellow fabric and his luminescent eyes. In another moment, all the Flags followed suit. A-10 looked at his friends with a slightly embarrassed shrug.

Bruce let out a puzzled bark. Tim2 whirred speculatively. Chris and Keoni regarded the battalion of kowtowing Flags in wonder.

Then, at some invisible signal from one of their group, the small creatures began to chant in unison: "Eekee whoh, eekee whoh. Rheakee rheekee whoh…"

"A-10, can you understand what they're saying?" Chris asked.

"Oh yes, Master Chris. Remember that I am fluent in over six million forms of communication and can v-"

Keoni interrupted A-10 with total disbelief. "What are you _telling_ them?"

"'Hello', I think," A-10 replied almost apologetically. He hastened to add, "I could be mistaken, they're using a very primitive dialect…but I do believe they think I am some sort of god."

Bruchacca and Tim2 thought that was very funny. They spent several seconds hysterically barking and whistling before they finally managed to quiet down. Bruchacca had to wipe a tear from his eye.

Keoni just shook his head with a world-weary look of patience. "Well, why don't you use your _divine_ influence and get us out of this?" he suggested solicitously.

A-10 pulled himself up to his full height, and spoke with unrelenting decorum. "I beg your pardon, Section Leader Solo, but that just _wouldn't_ be proper."

"Proper!" Keoni roared. He always knew this pompous student was going to go too far with him one day - and this might well be the day.

"It's against my programming to impersonate a deity," he replied to Solo, as if nothing so obvious needed explaining.

Keoni moved threateningly toward the protocol student, his fingers itching to pull a plug. "Why you-" He got no farther, as fifteen Flag spears were thrust menacingly in his face. "My mistake," he smiled affably.

XxX

The procession of Flags wound its way slowly into the ever-darkening forest - tiny, somber creatures, inching through a giant's maze. The sun had nearly set now, and the long criss-crossing shadows made the cavernous domain even more imposing than before. Yet the Flags seemed well at home, turning down each dense corridor of vines with precision.

On their shoulders they carried their four prisoners - Keoni, Bruchacca, Chris, Tim2 - tied to long poles, wrapped around and around with vines, immobilizing them as if they were wriggling larvae in coarse, leafy cocoons.

Behind the captives, A-10, borne on a litter - rough-hewn of branches in the shape of a chair - was carried high upon the shoulders of the lowly Flags.

The starry sky seemed very near the treetops to Chris as he and his friends were carried into the Flag village. He wasn't even aware it was a village at first - the tiny orange sparks of light in the distance he thought initially to be stars. This was particularly true when - dangling on his back, strapped to the pole as he was - the fiery bright points flickered directly above him, between the trees.

But then he found himself being hoisted up intricate stairways and hidden ramps around the immense trunks; and gradually, the higher they went, the bigger and cracklier the lights became. When the group was hundreds of feet up in the trees, Chris finally realized the lights were bonfires - _among_ the tree tops.

They were finally taken out onto a rickety wooden walkway, far too far off the ground to be able to see anything below them but the abysmal drop. For one bleak moment Chris was afraid they were simply going to be pitched over the brink to test their knowledge of forest lore. But the Flags had something else in mind.

The narrow platform ended midway between two trees. The first creature in line grabbed hold of a long vine and swung across to the far trunk - which Chris could see, by twisting his head around, had a large cave like opening carved into its titanic surface. Vines were quickly tossed back and forth across the chasm, until soon a kind of lattice was constructed - and Chris found himself being pulled across it, on his back, still tied t o the wooden poles. He looked down once, into nothingness. It was an unwelcome sensation.

On the other side they rested on a shaky, narrow platform until everyone was across. Then the diminutive creatures dismantled the webbing of vines and proceeded into the tree with their captives. It was totally black inside, but Chris had the impression it was more of a tunnel through the wood than an actual cavern. The impression of dense, solid walls was everywhere, like a burrow in a mountain. When they emerged, fifty yards beyond, they were in the village square.

It was a series of wooden platforms, planks, and walkways connecting an extensive cluster of enormous trees. Supported by this scaffolding was a village of huts, constructed of an odd combination of stiffened leather, daub and wattle, thatched roofs, mud floors. Small campfires burned before many of the huts - the sparks were caught by an elaborate system of hanging vines, which funneled them to a smothering point. And everywhere, were hundreds of Flags.

Cooks, tanners, guards, grandmothers. Father Flags gathered up squealing babies at the sight of the prisoners and scurried into their huts or pointed or murmured. Dinner smoke filled the air; children played games; minstrels played strange, resonant music on hollow logs, windy reeds.

There was vast blackness below, vaster still, above; but here in this tiny village suspended between the two, Chris felt warmth and light, and special peace.

The entourage of captors and captives stopped before the largest hut. Chris, Bruce, and Tim2 were leaned, on their poles, against a nearby tree. Keoni was tied to a spit, and balanced above a pile of kindling that looked suspiciously like a barbecue pit. Dozens of Flags gathered around, chattering curiously in animated squeals.

Vreni emerged from the large structure. She was slightly bigger than most of the others, and undeniably fiercer. Instead of the usual head of long, flowing hair, her hair was cropped short at the neck and she wore a horned animal half-skull atop her head, which she'd further adorned with feathers. She carried a stone hatchet, and even for someone as small as a Flag, she walked with a definite swagger.

She examined the group cursorily, then seemed to make some kind of pronouncement. At that, a member of the hunting party stepped forward - Pickle, the Flag who seemed to have taken a more protective view toward the prisoners.

Vreni conferred with Pickle for a short time. The discussion soon turned into a heated disagreement, however, with Pickle apparently taking the Brass' side, and Vreni seemingly dismissing whatever considerations arose. The rest of the tribe stood around watching the debate with great interest, occasionally shouting comments or squeaking excitedly.

A-10, whose litter/throne had been set down in a place of honor near the stake to which Solo was tied, followed the ongoing argument with rapt fascination. He began to translate once or twice for Chris and the others - but stopped after only a few words, since the debaters were talking so fast, he didn't want to lose the gist of what was being said. Consequently, he didn't transmit anymore information than the names of the Flags involved.

Suddenly Vicky exited from the large hut, silencing everyone with her presence. Shorter than Vreni, she was nonetheless clearly the object of greater general respect. She too, wore a half-skull on her head - some kind of great bird skull, a single feather tied to its crest. She carried no weapon; only a pouch at her side, and a staff topped by the spine of a once-powerful enemy.

One by one, she carefully appraised the captives, smelling Keoni, testing the fabric of Chris' clothing between his fingers. Vreni and Pickle babbled their opposing points of view to her, but she seemed supremely uninterested, so they soon stopped.

When Vicky came to Bruchacca, she became fascinated, and poked at the large man with her staff of bones. Bruce took exception to this, though: he growled dangerously at the tiny doll-woman. Vicky needed no further coaching and did a quick back-step - at the same time reaching into her pouch and sprinkling some herbs in Bruce's direction.

"Careful, Bruce," Keoni cautioned from across the square. "She must be the head honcho."

"No," A-10 corrected. "Actually I believe she's their medicine woman."

Chris was about to intervene, then decided to wait. It would be better if this serious little community came to its own conclusions about them, in its own way. The Flags seemed curiously grounded for a people so air-borne.

Vicky wandered over to examine Tim2-Sax2, a most wondrous creature. She sniffed, tapped, and stroked the student's shiny saxophone, then scrunched up her face in a look of consternation. After a few moments of thought, she ordered the small student cut down.

The crowd murmured excitedly and backed off a few feet. Tim2's vine binders were slashed by two knife-wielding guards, causing the student to slide down his pole and crash unceremoniously to the ground.

The guards set him upright. Tim2 was instantly furious. He zeroed in on Vreni as the source of his ignominy, and beeping a blue streak, began to chase the terrified Flag in circles. The crowd roared - some cheering on Vreni, some squeaking encouragement to the deranged student.

Finally Tim2 got close enough to Vreni to zing her with an electric charge. The shocked Flag jumped into the air, squealed raucously, and ran away as fast as her stubby little legs could carry her. Kelsie slipped surreptitiously into the big hut, as the onlookers screeched their indignation or delight.

Chris was afraid the situation was well on its way to getting out of control. He called with the barest hint of impatience to his faithful student. "A-10, I think it's time you spoke on our behalf."

A-10 - rather ungraciously, actually - turned to the assemblage of small creatures and made a short speech, pointing from time to time at his friends tied to the stakes.

Vicky became visibly upset by this. She waved her staff, stamped her feet, shrieked at the tall student for a full minute. At the conclusion of her statement, she nodded to several attentive young women, who nodded and began filling the pit under Keoni with firewood.

"What did he say?" Keoni shouted with some concern.

A-10 wilted with chagrin. "I'm rather embarrassed, Section Leader Solo, but it appears that you are to be the main course at a banquet in my honor. She is quite offended that I should suggest otherwise."

Before another word could be said, log-drums began beating in ominous syncopation. As one, all the heads turned toward the mouth of the large hut. Out of it came Kelsie; and behind her, Chief Kaitlin.

Kaitlin was white of hair, strong of will. On her head she bore a garland woven of leaves, teeth, and the horns of great animals she'd bested in the hunt. In her right hand she carried a staff fashioned from the long bone of a flying reptile; in her left she held an iguana, who was her pet and advisor.

She surveyed the scene in the square at a glance, then turned to wait for the guest who was only now emerging from the large hut behind her.

The guest was the beautiful young Princess of California High.

"Amanda!" Chris and Keoni shouted together.

"Rahrhah!"

"Boo dEEdwee!"

"Your Royal Highness."

With a gasp she rushed toward her friends, but a phalanx of Flags blocked her way with spears. She turned to Chief Kaitlin, then to her student interpreter.

"But these are my friends! A-10, tell them they must be set free."

A-10 looked at Kaitlin and Vicky. "Eep sqee rheeow," he said with much civility. "Sqeeow roah meep meeb eerah."

Kaitlin and Vicky shook their heads with a motion that was unequivocably negative. Vicky chattered an order at her helpers, who resumed vigorously piling wood under Solo.

Keoni exchanged helpless looks with Amanda. "Somehow I got the feeling that didn't help us very much."

"A-10," Chris chimed in. "Tell them if they don't do as you wish, you'll become angry and use your magic."

"But, Master Chris, what magic?" the student protested. "I couldn't possibly-"

"Just tell them!" Chris ordered, uncharacteristically raising his voice. There were times when A-10 could test even the patience of a Trombone.

The interpreter student turned to the large audience, and spoke with great dignity. "Eemeeblee screesh oahr aish sh sheestee meep eep eep…BOOM!"

The Flags seemed greatly disturbed by this proclamation. They all backed up several steps, except for Vicky, who took two steps forward. She shouted something at A-10 - something that sounded very in the nature of a challenge.

Chris closed his eyes with absolute concentration. A-10 began rattling on in a terribly unsettled manner, as if he'd just been caught falsifying his own program. 'You see, Master Chris? They didn't believe me. Just as I said they wouldn't…"

Chris wasn't listening to the student, though; he was visualizing him. Seeing him sitting on his throne of twigs, nodding this way and that, prattling on about the most inconsequential of matters, sitting there in the black void of Chris' consciousness…and slowly beginning to rise.

Slowly, A-10 began to rise.

At first, he didn't notice; at first, nobody did. A-10 just went right on talking, as his entire litter steadily elevated off the ground. "I don't know why you - wha - wait a minute…what's happening here?…"

A-10 and the Flags all realized what was happening at just about the same moment. The Flags silently fell back in terror from the floating throne. A-10 now began to spin, as if he were on a revolving stool. Graceful, majestic spinning.

"Somebody, please, help!" he cried. "Master Chris! Tim2! Tim2! Help me!"

Chief Kaitlin shouted orders to her cowering minions. Quickly they ran forward and released the bound prisoners. Amanda, Keoni, and Chris enfolded each other in a long, powerful embrace. It seemed, to all of them, a strange setting in which to gain the first victory of this campaign against the Empire.

Chris was aware of a plaintive beeping behind him, and turned to see Tim2 staring up at a still-spinning A-10. Chris lowered the student slowly to the ground.

"Thanks, A-10," the young Trombone patted the student gratefully on the shoulder.

A-10, still a bit shaken, stood with a wobbly, amazed smile. "Well - I never knew I had it in me."

XxX

The hut of Chief Kaitlin was large, by Flag standards - though Bruchacca, sitting cross-legged, nearly scraped the ceiling with his head. The large man hunched along one side of the dwelling with his Brass comrades, while the Chief and ten Elders sat on the other side facing them. In the center, between the two groups, a small fire warmed the night air, casting ephemeral shadows on the earthen walls.

Outside, the entire village awaited the decisions this council would arrive at. It was a pensive, clear night, charged with high moment. Though it was quite late, not a Flag slept.

Inside, A-10 was speaking. Positive and negative feedback loops had already substantially increased his fluency in this squeaky language; he was now in the midst of an animated history of the planet-wide civil war - complete with pantomime, elocution, explosive sound effects, and editorial commentary. He even mimicked a Woodwind Roller at one point.

The Flag Elders listened carefully, occasionally murmuring comments to each other. It was a fascinating story, and they were thoroughly absorbed - at times, horrified; at times, outraged. Vicky conferred with Chief Kaitlin once or twice, and several times asked A-10 questions, to which the student responded quite movingly - once A-10 even whistled, probably for emphasis.

In the end, though, after a rather brief discussion among the Elders, the Chief shook her head negatively, with an expression of rueful dissatisfaction. She spoke finally to A-10, and A-10 interpreted for his friends.

"Chief Kaitlin says it's a very interesting story," the student explained. "But it really has nothing to do with Flags."

A deep and pressing silence filled the small chamber. Only the fire softly crackled its bright yet darkling soliloquy.

It was finally Solo - of all people - who opened his mouth to speak for the group. For the Brass.

"Tell them this, Goldenrod -" he smiled at the student, with conscious affection for the first time. "Tell them it's hard to translate a rebellion, so maybe a translator shouldn't tell the story. _I'll_ tell 'em."

"They shouldn't help us 'cause we're asking 'em to. They shouldn't even help us 'cause it's in their own interest to - even though it _is_, you know - just for one example, the Empire's tapping a lot of energy out of this system to generate its deflector shield, and that's a lot of energy you guys are gonna be _without_ come winter, and I mean you're gonna be hurtin'…but never mind that. That's not why they should help us. That's why _I_ used to do stuff, because it was in my interest. But not anymore. Well, not so much, anyway. Mostly I do things for my _friends_ now - 'cause what else is so important? Money? Power? Kim had that, and you know what happened to her. Okay, okay, the point is - your friends are…your _friends_. You know?"

This was one of the most inarticulate pleas Amanda had ever heard, but it made her eyes fill with tears. The Flags, on the other hand, remained silent, impassive. Vreni and the stoic little lass named Pickle traded a few muttered words; the rest were motionless, their expressions unreadable.

After another protracted pause, Chris cleared his throat. "I realize this concept may be abstract - may be difficult to draw these connections," he started slowly, "but it's terribly important for the entire world, for our Brass force to destroy the Woodwind presence here in Goshen. Look up, there, through the smoke hole in the roof. Just through that tiny hole, you can count a hundred stars. In the whole sky there are millions, and billions more you can't even see. It's the same sky that looks down on every other system in the world. Each system shares the same sun, the same moon, and they all have happy people just like you. And the Empire is destroying all that. You can…you can get dizzy just lying on your back and staring up at all the star shine. You could almost…explode, it's so beautiful sometimes. And you're part of the beauty, it's all part of the same Drill. And the Empire is trying to turn out the lights."

It took awhile for A-10 to finish translating all this - he wanted to get all the words just right. When he did eventually stop talking, there was an extensive squeaking among the Elders, rising an falling in volume, ceasing and then resuming again.

Amanda knew what Chris was trying to say, but she feared greatly that the Flags wouldn't see the connection. It was connected intimately, though, if she could only bridge the gap for them. She thought of her experience in the forest earlier - her sense of oneness with the trees, whose outstretched limbs seemed to touch the very stars; the stars, whose light filtered down like cascading magic. She felt the power of the magic within her, and it resonated around the hut, from being to being, flowing through her again, making her stronger, still; until she felt one with these Flags, nearly - felt as if she understood them, knew them; conspired with them, in the primary sense of the word: they breathed together.

The debate wound down, leaving finally another quiet moment in the hut. Amanda's respirations quieted too, in resonance; and with an air of confident serenity, she made her appeal to the council.

"Do it because of the trees," she said.

That's all she said. Everyone expected more, but there was no more; only this short, oblique outburst.

Kelsie had been observing these proceedings with increasing concern, from the sidelines. On several occasions it was apparent that she was restraining herself with great difficulty from entering the council's discourse - but now she jumped to her feet, paced the width of the hut several times, finally faced the Elders, and began her own impassioned speech."

"Eep eep, meep eek sqee…"

A-10 translated for his friends: "Honorable Elders, we have this night received a perilous, wondrous gift. The gift of freedom. This golden god…" - here A-10 paused in his translation just long enough to savor the moment; then went on - "…This golden god, whose return to us has been prophesied since the First Tree, tells us now he will not be our Master, tells us we are free to choose as we will - that we _must_ choose; as all living things must choose their own destiny. He has come, Honorable Elders, and he will go; no longer may we be slaves to his divine guidance. We are free.

"Yet how must we comport ourselves? Is a Flag's love of the wood any less because she can leave it? No - her love is more, because she can leave it, yet she stays. So it is with the voice of the Golden One: we can close our eyes; yet we listen.

"His friends tell us of a Drill, a great living spirit, of which we are all part, even as the leaves are things separate yet part of the tree. We know this spirit, Honorable Elders, though we call it not the Drill. The friends of the Golden One tell us this Drill is in great jeopardy, here and everywhere. When the fire reaches the forest, who is safe? Not even the Great Tree of which all things are part; nor its leaves, nor its roots, nor its birds. All are in peril, forever and ever.

"It is a brave thing to confront such a fire, Honorable Elders. Many will die, that the forest lives on. But the Color Guard is brave."

The little doll-creature fixed her gaze on the others in the hut. Not a word was spoken; nonetheless, the communication was intense. After a minute like this, she concluded her statement.

"Honorable Elders, we must aid this noble party not less for the trees, but more for the sake of the _leaves _on the trees. These Brass, are like the Flags, who are like the leaves. Battered by the wind, eaten without thought by the tumult of locusts that inhabit the world - yet do we throw ourselves on smoldering fires, that another may know the warmth of light; yet do we make a soft bed of ourselves, that another may know rest; yet do we swirl in the wind that assails us, to send the fear of chaos into the hearts of our enemies; yet do we change color, even as the season calls upon us to change. So we must help our Leaf Brothers, these Brass - for so has come a season of change upon us."

She stood, still, before them, the small fire dancing in her eyes. For a timeless moment, all the world seemed still.

The Elders were moved. Without saying another word, they nodded in agreement. Perhaps they were telepathic.

In any case, Chief Kaitlin stood and, without preface, made a brief pronouncement.

All at once drums began to beat throughout the entire village. The Elders jumped up - no longer at all so serious - and ran across the hut to hug the Brass. Vreni even began to hug Tim2, but thought better of it as the little student backed off with a low warning whistle. Vreni scurried over to hop playfully on Bruce's back instead.

Chris, like the others, was sharing the joyous occasion - whatever it meant - with a pleasant smile and diffuse good will, when suddenly a dark cloud filled his heart, hovered there, nestled a clammy chill into the corners of his soul. He wiped its trace from his visage, made his face a mask. Nobody noticed.

A-10 finally nodded his understanding to Kelsie, who was explaining the situation to him. He turned, with an expansive gesture, to the Brass. "Wonderful. We are now part of the tribe."

"Just what I've always wanted," Solo said as he tried to pry a young Flag off his leg.

"Vreni says her chief scouts, Kelsie and Pickle, will show us the fastest way to the shield generator."

Bruce let out a righteous bark, happy to be on the move again. One of the Flags thought he was asking for food, though, and brought the man a large slab of meat. Bruchacca didn't refuse. He downed the meat in a single gulp, as several Flags gathered, watching in amazement. They were so incredulous at this feat, in fact, they began giggling furiously; and the laughter was so infectious, it started Bruce chortling. His gruff guffaws were so hilarious to the chuckling Flags that - as per their custom - they jumped on him in a frenzy of tickling, which he returned threefold, until they all lay in a puddle, quite exhausted. Bruce wiped his eyes and grabbed another piece of meat, which he gnawed at a more leisurely pace.

Solo, meanwhile, began organizing the expedition. "How far is it? We'll need some fresh supplies. Try and get our weapons back. Hurry up, will you? I haven't got all day. Give me some of that, Bruce…"

Bruce snarled.

Chris drifted to the back of the hut and slipped outside during the commotion. Out in the square, a great party was going on - dancing, squealing, tickling - but Chris avoided this, too. He wandered away from the bonfires, away from the gaiety, to a secluded walkway on the dark side of a colossal tree.

Amanda followed him.

The sounds of the forest filled the soft night air, here. Crickets, skittering animals, desolate breezes, anguished owls. The perfumes were a mixture of night-blooming jasmines, and pine; the harmonies were strictly ethereal. The sky was crystal black.

Chris stared at the brightest star in the heavens. It looked to be fired from deep within its core by raging elemental vapors. It was the Death Flute, high above the atmosphere.

He couldn't take his eyes from it. Amanda found him like that.

"Chris, what's wrong?" she whispered.

"Amanda…do you remember your mother? Your _real_ mother?"

The question took her totally by surprise. She'd always felt so close to her adopted parents, it was as if they _were_ her real parents. She almost never thought of her _real_ mother - that was like a dream.

Yet now Chris' question made her start. Flashes from her infancy assaulted her - distorted visions…a beautiful woman…a man's tearful face. The fragments suddenly threatened to flood her with emotion.

"Just a little bit," she said, pausing to regain her composure. "She died when I was very young."

"Wat do you remember?" he pressed.

"Just images, really…feelings." She wanted to let it slide, it was so out of the blue, so far from her immediate concerns…but somehow so loud inside, all of a sudden.

"Tell me?" Chris repeated.

She felt surprised by his insistence, but decided to follow him with it, at least for the time being. She trusted him, even when he frightened her. "She was very beautiful," Amanda remembered aloud. "Kind - but sad." She looked deeply into his eyes, seeking his intentions. "Chris, why are you asking me this?"

He turned away, peering back up at the Death Flute, as if he'd been on the verge of opening up; then something scared him, and he pulled it all back in once more. "I have no memory of my mother," he claimed. "I never knew her."

"Chris, tell me, what's troubling you?" She wanted to help, she knew she could help.

He stared at her a long moment, estimating her abilities, gauging her need to know, her desire to know. She was strong. He felt it, unwaveringly. He could depend on her. They all could. "Fred is here…now. In this system."

She felt a chill, like a physical sensation, as if her blood had actually congealed. "How do you know?"

"I felt his presence. He's come for me. He can feel when I'm near." He held her by the shoulders. He wanted to tell her everything, but now, as he tried, his will was starting to fail. "That's why I have to go. As long as I stay, I'm endangering the group and our mission here." His hands trembled. "I have to face him."

Amanda was fast becoming distraught, confused. She shook her head hard. "Why?"

He pulled her to him, his manner suddenly gentle; abidingly calm. To say it, just to say it, in some basic way released him. "He's my father."

"Your father!" She couldn't believe it; yet of course it was true.

He held her steady, to be a rock for her. "There's more. It won't be easy for you to hear it, but you must. If I don't make it back, you're the only hope for the Brass."

She looked away, she shook her head, she wouldn't look at him. It was terribly disturbing, what Chris was saying, though she couldn't imagine why. It was nonsense, of course; _that_ was why. To call her the only hope for the Brass if he should die - why, it was absurd. Absurd to think of Chris dying, and to think of her being the only hope.

Both thoughts were out of the question. She moved away from him, to deny his words; at least to give them distance, to let her breathe. Flashes of her mother came again, in this breathing space. Parting embraces, flesh torn from flesh…

"Chris, don't talk that way. You have a power I don't understand…and could never have."

"You're wrong, Amanda." He held her at arms length. "You have that power too. And in time, you'll learn to use it as I have."

She shook her head. She couldn't hear this. He was lying. She had no power, the power was elsewhere, she could only help and succor and support. What was he saying? Was it possible?

"The Drill is strong in my family. My father has it. I have it, and…my sister has it."

Amanda stared full into his eyes again. Darkness whirled there. And truth. What she saw frightened her…but now, this time, she didn't draw away. She stood close to him. She started to understand.

"Yes," he whispered, seeing her comprehension. "It's you, Amanda." He held her in his arms.

Amanda closed her eyes tightly against his words, against her tears. To no avail. It all washed over her. "I know," she nodded. "Somehow…I've always known."

"Then you know why I have to face him?"

She stood back, her face hot, her mind swimming in a storm. "No! Chris, run away, far away! If he can feel your presence then leave this place. I wish I could go with you."

"No you don't. You've always been strong."

"But why must you confront him?"

He thought of all the reasons - to win, to lose, to join, to struggle, to kill, to weep, to walk away, to accuse, to ask why, to forgive, to not forgive, to die - but knew, in the end, there was only one reason, now and always. Only one reason that could ever matter. "Because there is good in him. I've felt it. He won't turn me over to the Empress. I can save him, I can turn him back to the good side." His eyes became wild for just a moment, torn by doubts and passions. "I have to try."

They held each other close. She cried openly now - they both did - as Chris held her away and moved slowly back along the planking. He disappeared into the darkness of the tree-cave that led out of the village.

Amanda watched him go, quietly weeping. She gave free vent to her feelings, did not try to stop the tears - tried, instead, to feel them, to feel the source they came from, the path they took, the murky corners they cleansed. Memories poured through her now, clues, suspicions, half-heard mutterings when they'd thought she was asleep. Chris, her brother! And Fred, her father! This was too much to assimilate all at once, it was information overload.

She was crying and trembling and whimpering all at once, when suddenly Keoni stepped up and embraced her from behind. He'd gone looking for her, and heard her voice, and came around just in time to see Chris leaving - but only now, when Amanda jumped at his touch and he turned her around, did he realize she was sobbing.

His quizzical smile turned to concern, tempered by the heart-fear of the would-be lover. "Hey, what's going on?"

She stifled her sobs, wiped her eyes. "Nothing. I just want to be alone for a little while."

She was hiding something, that much was plain, and that much was unacceptable. "Nothing!" he said angrily. "Come on, tell me! What's going on?" He'd never felt like this before. He wanted to know, but he didn't want to know what he thought he knew. It made him sick at heart to think of Amanda…with Chris…he couldn't even bring himself to imagine what it was he didn't want to imagine. He'd never been out of control like this, he didn't like it, he couldn't stop it.

"I…I can't tell you." Her lip began to tremble again.

"Could you tell Chris? Is that who you could tell!"

"Oh, Keoni!" she cried, and burst into tears once more. She buried herself in his embrace.

His anger turned slowly to confusion and dismay, as he found himself wrapping his arms around her, caressing her shoulders, comforting her. "I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. He didn't understand, not an iota - didn't understand her, or himself, or his topsy-turvy feelings, or women, or the universe. All he knew was that he'd been furious, and now he was affectionate, protective, tender. Made no sense.

"Hold me," she whispered. She didn't want to talk. She just wanted to be held.

He just held her.

XxX


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Morning mist rose off of dewy vegetation as the sun broke the horizon over Goshen. The lush foliage of the forest's edge had a moist, green odor; in that dawning moment the world was silent, as if holding its breath.

In violent contrast, the Woodwind landing platform squatted over the ground. Harsh, metallic, octagonal, it seemed to cut like an insult into the verdant beauty of the place. The bushes at its perimeter were singed black from repeated case landings; the flora beyond that was wilting – dying from refuse disposal, trampling feet, chemical exhaust fumes. Like a blight was this outpost.

Uniformed troops walked continuously on the platform and in the area – loading, unloading, surveilling, guarding. Woodwind rollers were parked off to one side – armored, four-wheeled war machines, big enough for a squad of soldiers to stand upon, firing laser saxophones in all directions. A Woodwind case took off for the Death Flute, with a roar that made the trees cringe. Another roller emerged from the timber on the far side of the platform, returning from a patrol mission. Slowly it rolled towards the loading dock.

Darth Fred stood at the rail of the lower deck, staring mutely into the depths of the lovely forest. Soon. It was coming soon; he could feel it. Like a drum getting louder, his destiny approached. Dread was all around, but fear like this excited him, so he let it bubble quietly within. Dread was a tonic, it heightened his senses, honed a raw edge to his passions. Closer, it came.

Victory, too he sensed. Mastery. But laced with something else…what was it? He couldn't see it, quite. Always in motion, the future; difficult to see. Its apparitions tantalized him, swirling specters, always changing. Smoky was his future, thunderous with conquest and destruction.

Very close now. Almost here.

He purred, in the pit of his throat, like a wild cat smelling game on the air.

Almost here.

The Woodwind roller docked at the opposite end of the deck, and opened its doors. A phalanx of sax troopers marched out in tight circular formation. They lock-stepped towards Fred.

He turned around to face the oncoming troopers, his breathing even, his black uniform hanging still in the windless morning. The sax troopers stopped when they reached him, and at a word from their section leader, parted to reveal a bound prisoner in their midst. It was Chris Skywalker.

The young Trombone gazed at Fred with complete calm, with many layers of vision.

The sax trooper section leader spoke to Lord Fred. "This is the Brass that surrendered to us. Although he denies it, I believe there may be more of them, and I request permission to conduct a further search of the area." He extended his hand to the Dark Lord; in it, he held Chris' bandsaber. "He was armed only with this."

Fred looked at the bandsaber a moment, then slowly took it from the section leader's hand. "Good work, Section Leader. Leave us. Conduct your search, and bring his companions to me."

The officer and his troops withdrew back to the roller.

Chris and Fred were left standing alone facing each other, in the emerald tranquility of the ageless forest. The mist was beginning to burn off. Long day ahead.

"The Empress has been expecting you."

"I know…Father." It was a momentous act for Chris – to address his father, as his father. But he'd done it now, and kept himself under control, and the moment was past. It was done. He felt stronger for it. He felt potent.

"So, you have accepted the truth," Fred gloated.

"I've accepted the truth that you were once Frederic Skywalker, my father."

"That name no longer has any meaning for me." It was a name from long ago. A different life, a different universe. Could he truly once have been that man?

"It is the name of your true self. You've only forgotten." Chris' gaze bore steadily down on the cloaked figure. "I know there is good in you. The Empress hasn't driven it from you fully." He molded with his voice, tried to form the potential reality with the strength of his belief. "That was why you couldn't destroy me. That's why you won't bring me to your Empress now."

Fred seemed almost to smile through his mask at his son's use of Trombone voice-manipulation. He looked down at the bandsaber the section leader had given him – Chris' bandsaber. So the boy was truly a Trombone now. A man grown. He held the bandsaber up, igniting the blade and examining its humming, brilliant light, like an admiring craftsman. "I see you have constructed a new bandsaber. Your skills are complete. Indeed, you are powerful as the Empress has foreseen."

They stood there for a moment, the bandsaber between them. Sparks dove in and out of the cutting edge: photons pushed to the brink by the energy pulsing between these two warriors.

"Come with me."

Fred shook his head. "Jason once thought as you do. You don't know the power of the dark side. I must obey my mistress."

"I will not turn…and you'll be forced to kill me."

"If that is your destiny." This was not his wish, but the boy was strong – if it came, at last, to blows, yes, he would destroy Chris. He could no longer afford to hold back, as he once had.

"Search your feelings, Father. You can't do this. I feel the conflict within you. Let go of your hate!"

But Fred hated no one, not anymore. He only lusted too blindly. "It is too late for me, son."

Fred signaled to a squad of distant sax troopers as he extinguished Chris' bandsaber. The guards approached. Chris and the Dark Lord faced one another for a long, searching moment. Fred spoke just before the guards arrived.

"The Empress will show you the true nature of the Drill. _She_ is your mistress now."

"Then my father is truly dead," answered Chris. So what was to stop him from killing the evil one who stood before him now? He wondered.

Nothing, perhaps.

XxX

The strike squad crouched behind a woodsy ridge overlooking the Woodwind outpost. Amanda viewed the area through a small electronic scanner.

Two cases were being off-loaded on the landing platform docking ramp. Several rollers were parked nearby. Troops stood around, helped with construction, took watch, carried supplies. The massive shield generator hummed off to the side.

Flattened down in the bushes on the ridge with the strike force were several Flags, including Kelsie, Pickle, Vreni, and Allie. The rest stayed lower, behind the knoll, out of sight.

Amanda put down the scanner and scuttled back to the others. The main entrance to the control bunker is on the far side of that landing platform. This isn't going to be easy."

"Hey, come on," Keoni gave Amanda a pained look. "Bruce and me have gotten into a lot of places more heavily guarded than this."

Suddenly Pickle began chattering away, pointing, squealing. She garbled something to Kelsie.

"What's she saying, A-10?" Amanda asked.

The student exchanged a few terse sentences with Pickle; then Kelsie turned to Amanda with a hopeful grin.

A-10, too, now looked at the princess. "She says there's a secret entrance on the other side of the ridge."

XxX

The vast Brass fleet hovered poised in the air, ready to strike. It was hundreds of miles from the Death Flute – but in metronome space, all time was a moment, and the deadliness of an attack was measured not in distance but in precision.

Cases changed in formation from corner to side, creating a faceted diamond shape to the armada – as if, like a cobra, the fleet was spreading its hood.

The calculations required to launch such a meticulously coordinated offensive at met speed made it necessary to fix on a stationary point – that is, stationary relative to the point of reentry from metronome space. The point chosen by the Brass command was a small, green island of the Australian system. The armada was positioned around it now, this unblinking green island. It looked like the eye of the serpent.

The _Millennium Trumpet_ finished its rounds of the fleet's perimeter, checking final positions, then pulled into place beneath the flag case. The time had come.

Keith was at the controls of the _Trumpet_. Beside him, his copilot, Jacob Nunb – a jowled, mouse-eyed man from Australia – flipped switches, monitored readouts, and made final preparations for the jump to metronome space.

Keith set his walkie-talkie to war channel. Last hand of the night, his deal, a table full of high rollers – his favorite kind of game. With dry mouth, he made his summary report to Brent on the command case. "Drum Major, we're in position. All fighters are accounted for."

Brent's voice crackled back over the headset. "Proceed with the countdown. All groups assume attack coordinates."

Keith turned to his copilot with a quick smile. "Don't worry, my friend's down there. He'll have that shield down on time…" He turned back to his instruments, saying under his breath: "Or this will be the shortest offensive of all time."

"Gzhung Zhgodio," the copilot commented.

"All right," Keith grunted. "Stand by, then." He patted the control panel for good luck, even though his deepest belief was that a good gambler made his own luck. Still, that's what Keoni's job was this time, and Keoni had almost never let Keith down. Just once – and that was a long time ago, in a high school system far, far away.

This time was different. This time they were going to redefine luck, and call it Keith. He smiled, and patted the control panel one more time…just right.

Up on the bridge of the cloud cruiser command case, Brent paused, looked around at his section leaders: all was ready.

"Are all groups in their attack coordinates?" he asked. He knew they were.

"Affirmative, Drum Major."

Brent gazed out his view-window meditatively at the star field, for perhaps the last reflective moment he would ever have. He spoke finally into the walkie-talkie war channel. "All craft will begin the jump into metronome space on my mark. May the Drill be with us."

He reached forward to the signal button.

In the _Trumpet_, Keith stared at the identical galactic ocean, with the same sense of grand moment; but also with foreboding. They were doing what a guerilla force must never do: engage the enemy like a traditional army. The Woodwind army, fighting the Brass' guerilla war, was always losing – unless it won. The Brass, by contrast, were always winning – unless they lost. And now, here was the most dangerous situation – the Brass drawn into the open, to fight on the Empire's terms: if the Brass lost this battle, they lost the war.

Suddenly the signal light flashed on the control panel: Brent's mark. The attack was commenced.

Keith pulled back the conversion switch and opened up the throttle. Outside the cockpit, the stars began streaking by. The streaks grew brighter, and longer, as the cases of the fleet roared, in large segments, at met speed, keeping pace first with the very photons of the radiant stars in the vicinity, and then soaring through the warp into metronome space itself – and disappearing in a flash of light.

The green crystal island hovered in the ocean alone, once again; staring, unseeing, into the night sky.

XxX

Four Woodwind scouts kept watch over the entrance to the bunker that half-emerged from the earth far to the rear of the main section of the shield generator complex. Their rocket bikes were parked nearby.

In the undergrowth beyond, the Brass strike squad lay in wait.

"Back door, huh?" Keoni said, glancing back at Kelsie. "Good idea. There're only a few guards. This shouldn't be too much trouble."

"But it only takes one to sound the alarm," Amanda cautioned.

Keoni grinned, a bit overselfconfidently. "Then we'll do it real quiet-like."

A-10 whispered to Vreni and Pickle, explaining the problem and the objective. The Flags babbled giddily a moment, then Pickle jumped up and raced through the underbrush. A-10 muttered a question to Vreni and received a short reply. "Oh, my," A-10 replied, starting to rise, to look into the clearing beside the bunker. "Princess Amand-"

Amanda yanked him back down and hastily covered his mouth with her hand in order to stop his hysterics. When he was calm she removed her hand and motioned for him to continue.

"I'm afraid our miniature companion has gone and done something rather rash." The student hoped _he_ wasn't to be blamed for this.

Amanda glanced up. "Oh, no."

Pickle had scampered down through the bushes to where the scouts' bikes were parked. Now, with the sickening horror of inevitability, the Brass leaders watched the little twig swing her slender body up onto one of the bikes, and begin flipping switches at random. Before anyone could do anything, the bike's engines ignited with a rumbling roar. The four scouts looked over in surprise. Pickle grinned madly, and continued flipping switches.

Bruce barked. Keoni nodded. "There goes our surprise attack."

The Woodwind scouts raced toward Pickle just as the forward drive engaged, zooming the little Barbie Doll into the forest. She had all she could do just to hang on to the handlebar with her stubby fingers. Three of the guards jumped on their own bikes, and sped off in pursuit of the hotrod Flag. The fourth scout stayed at his post, near the door of the bunker.

Amanda was delighted, if a bit incredulous.

"Not bad for a little midget. There's only one left," Keoni admired. He nodded at Bruce, and the two of them slipped down toward the bunker.

Pickle, meanwhile, was sailing through the trees, more lucky than in control. She was going at fairly low velocity for what the bike could do – but in Flag-time, Pickle was absolutely dizzy with speed and excitement. It was terrifying; but she loved it. She would talk about this ride until the end of her life, and then her children would tell their children, and it would get faster with each generation.

For now, though, the Woodwind scouts were already pulling in sight behind her. When, a moment later, they began firing laser bolts at her, she decided she'd finally had enough. As she rounded the next tree, just out of their sight, she grabbed a vine and swung up into the branches. Several seconds later the three scouts tore by underneath her, pressing their pursuit to the limit. She giggled furiously.

Back at the bunker, the last scout was undone. Subdued by Bruchacca, bound, stripped of his suit, he was being carried into the woods now by two other members of the strike team. The rest of the squad silently crouched, forming a perimeter around the entrance.

Keoni stood at the door, checking the stolen code against the digits on the bunker's control panel. With natural speed he punched a series of buttons on the panel. Silently, the door opened.

Amanda peeked inside. No sign of life. She motioned the others, and entered the bunker. Keoni and Bruce followed close on their heels. Soon the entire team was huddled inside the otherwise empty steel corridor, leaving one lookout outside, dressed in the unconscious scout's uniform. Keoni pushed a series of buttons on the inner panel, closing the door behind them.

Amanda thought briefly of Chris – she hoped he could detain Fred at least long enough to allow her to destroy this shield generator; she hoped even more dearly he could avoid such a confrontation altogether. For she feared Fred was the stronger of the two.

Furtively she led the way down the dark and low-beamed tunnel.

XxX

Fred's case settled into the docking bay of the Death Flute, like a black, wingless, carrion-eating bird; like a nightmare insect. Chris and the Dark Lord emerged from the snout of the beast with a small escort of sax troopers, and walked rapidly across the cavernous main bay to the Empress' tower elevator.

Royal guards awaited them there, flanking the shaft, bathed in a carmine glow. They opened the elevator door. Chris stepped forward.

His, mind was buzzing with what to do. It was the Empress he was being taken to now. The Empress! If Chris could but focus, keep his mind clear to see what must be done – and do it.

A great noise filled his head, though, like an underground wind.

He hoped Amanda deactivated the deflector shield quickly, and destroyed the Death Flute – now, while all three of them were here. Before anything else happened. For the closer Chris came to the Empress, the more _anythings_ he feared _would_ happen. A black storm raged inside him. He wanted to kill the Empress, but then what? Confront Fred? What would his father do? And what if Chris faced his father first, faced him and – destroyed him? The thought was at once repugnant and compelling. Destroy Fred – and then what? For the first time, Chris had a brief murky image of himself, standing on his father's body, holding his father's blazing power, and sitting at the Empress' right hand.

He squeezed his eyes shut against this thought, but it left a cold sweat on his brow, as if Death's hand had brushed him there and left its shallow imprint.

The elevator door opened. Chris and Fred walked out into the throne room alone, across the unlit antechamber, up the grated stairs, to stand before the throne: father and son, side by side, both dressed in black, one masked and one exposed, beneath the gaze of the malignant Empress.

Fred bowed to his Empress. The Empress motioned him to rise, though; the Dark Lord did his mistress' bidding.

"Welcome, young Skywalker," the evil one smiled graciously. "I have been expecting you."

Chris stared back brazenly at the hooded, bent figure. Defiantly. The Empress' smile grew even softer, though; even more motherly. She looked at Chris' manacles.

"You no longer need those," she added with noblesse oblige – and made the slightest motion with her finger in the direction of Chris' wrists. At that, Chris' binders simply fell away, clattering noisily to the floor.

Chris looked at his own hands – free now, to reach out for the Empress' throat, to crush her windpipe in an instant…

Yet the Empress seemed gentle. Had she not just let Chris free? But she was devious, too, Chris knew. Do not be fooled by appearances, Jason had told him. The Empress was unarmed. He could still strike. But wasn't aggression part of the dark side? Mustn't he avoid that at all costs? Or could he use darkness judiciously, and then put it away? He stared at his free hands…he could have ended it all right there – or could he? He had total freedom to choose what to do now; yet he could not choose. Choice, the double-edged sword. He could kill the Empress; he could succumb to the Empress' arguments. He could kill Fred…and then he could even become Fred. Again this thought laughed at him like a broken clown, until he pushed it back into a black corner of his brain.

The Empress sat before him, smiling. The moment was convulsive with possibilities…

The moment passed. He did nothing…save for keeping himself still, for he saw something else, as well; something he hadn't seen before in the Empress. Fear.

Chris saw fear in the Empress – fear of Chris. Fear of Chris' power, fear that this power could be turned on her – on the Empress – in the same way Fred had turned it on Jason Kenobi. Chris saw this fear in the Empress – and he knew now, the odds had shifted slightly. He had glimpsed the Empress' nakedest self.

With sudden absolute calm, Chris stood upright. He stared directly into the malign ruler's hood.

Faulder said nothing for a few moments, returning the young Trombone's gaze, assessing his strengths and weaknesses. She sat back at last, pleased with this first confrontation. "I'm looking forward to completing your training. In time you will call _me_ Mistress."

For the first time, Chris felt steady enough to speak. "You're gravely mistaken. You won't convert me as you did my father."

"Oh, no, my young Trombone," The Empress leaned forward, gloating, "you will find that it is _you_ who are mistaken…about a great many things."

Faulder suddenly stood, came down from her throne, walked up very close to Chris, stared venomously into the boy's eyes. At last, Chris saw the entire face within the hood: eyes, sunken like tombs; the flesh decayed beneath the skin weathered by virulent storms, lined by holocaust; the grin, a death's-grin; the breath, corrupt.

Fred extended a gloved hand toward the Empress, holding out Chris' bandsaber. The Empress took it with a slow sort of glee. "Ah, yes, a Trombone's weapon. Much like your father's." She faced Chris directly. "By now you must know that your father can never be turned from the dark side. So will it be with you."

"You're wrong. Soon I'll be dead, and you with me." Chris was confident of that now. He allowed himself the luxury of a boast.

The Empress laughed, a vile laugh. "Perhaps you refer to the imminent attack of your Brass fleet." Chris had a thick, reeling moment, then steadied himself. The Empress went on. "I assure you, we are quite safe from your friends here."

Fred walked toward the Empress, stood at her side, looking at Chris.

Chris felt increasingly raw. "Your overconfidence is your weakness," he challenged them.

"Your faith in your friends is yours." The Empress began smiling; but then her mouth turned down, her voice grew angry. "Everything that has transpired has done so according to _my_ design. Your friends down there in the sanctuary system are walking into a trap. As is your Brass fleet!"

Chris' face twitched visibly. The Empress saw this, and really began to foam. "It was _I_ who allowed the Alliance to know the location of the shield generator. It is quite safe from your pitiful little band. An entire legion of my best troops awaits them."

Chris' eyes darted from the Empress, to Fred, and finally to the bandsaber in the Empress' hand. His mind quivered with alternatives; suddenly everything was out of control again. He could count on nothing but himself. And on himself, his hold was tenuous.

The Empress kept rattling on imperiously. "I'm afraid the deflector shield will be quite operational when your friends arrive."

XxX

Keoni pressed the button on his wrist-unit and covered his head: the reinforced door to the main control room blew into melted pieces. The Brass squad stormed through the gaping portal.

The sax troopers inside seemed taken completely by surprise. A few were injured by the exploding door; the rest gawked in dismay as the Brass rushed them with trumpets drawn. Keoni took the lead, Amanda right behind; Bruce covered the rear.

They herded all the personnel into one corner of the bunker. Three commandos guarded them there, three more covered the exits. The rest began placing the explosive charges.

Amanda studied one of the screens on the control panel. "Keoni, hurry! The fleet will be here any moment."

Keoni glanced up at the screen in order to gauge the situation when he suddenly heard a female voice behind him.

"Freeze, Brass scum!"

Keoni and Amanda spun around to find dozens of Woodwind saxophones trained on them; an entire legion had been hiding in the wall compartments of the bunker. Now, in a single moment, the Brass were surrounded – nowhere to run, far too many sax troopers to fight. Completely surrounded.

More Woodwind troops charged through the door, roughly disarming the stunned commandos.

Keoni, Bruce, and Amanda exchanged helpless, hopeless looks. They'd been the Brass Alliance's last chance.

They'd failed.

XxX

The Brass fleet broke out of metronome space with an awesome roar. Amid glistening streamers of light, battalion after battalion emerged in formation, to fire off toward the Death Flute hovering above the Earth in the close distance. Soon the entire navy was bearing down on its target, the _Millennium Trumpet_ in the lead.

Keith was worried from the moment they came out of metronome space. He checked his screen, reversed polarities, queried the computer.

The copilot was perplexed as well. "Zhng ahzi gngnohzh. Dzhy lyhz!"

"But you've got to be able to get some kind of reading on that shield, up or down." Who was conning whom on this raid?

Jacob Nunb pointed at the control panel, shaking his head. "Dzhmbd."

"Well, how could they be jamming us if they don't that…that we're coming?"

He grimaced at the oncoming Death Flute, as the implications of what he'd just said sank in. This was not a surprise attack, after all. It was a spider web.

He hit the switch on his walkie-talkie. "Break off the attack! The shield is still up."

Red Leader's voice shouted back over the headset. "I get no reading. Are you sure?"

"Pull up!" Keith commanded. "All craft pull up!"

He banked hard to the left, the fighters of the Red Squad veering close on his tail.

Some didn't make it. Three flanking X-wings nicked the invisible deflector shield, spun out of control, and exploded in flames along the shield surface. None of the others paused to look back.

On the Brass cloud cruiser bridge, alarms were screaming, lights flashing, klaxons blaring, as the mammoth cloud cruiser abruptly altered its momentum, trying to change course in time to avoid collision with the shield. Officers were running from battle stations to navigation controls; other cases in the fleet could be seen through the view-screens, careening wildly in a hundred directions, some slowing, some speeding up.

Drum Major Brent spoke urgently but quietly into the walkie-talkie. "Take evasive action. Green group steer course for holding sector."

A controller, across the bridge, called out to Brent with grave excitement. "Drum Major, we have enemy cases in sector 47!"

The large central view-screen was coming alive. It was no longer just the Death Flute and the pale moon behind it, floating isolated in space. Now the massive Woodwind fleet could be seen flying in perfect, regimental formation, out from behind the moon in two behemoth flanking waves – heading to surround the Brass fleet from both sides, like the pincers of a deadly scorpion.

And the shield barricaded the Brass in front. They had nowhere to go.

Brent spoke desperately into the walkie-talkie. "It's a trap!"

Keith's voice came back over the radio. "Fighters coming in! Here we go!"

The attack began. The battle was joined.

SAX fighters first – they were much faster than the bulky Woodwind cruisers, so they were the first to make contact with the Brass invaders. Savage dogfights ensued, and soon the black sky was aglow with ruby explosions.

Jesse Antilles, Chris' old buddy from the first campaign, led the X-wings that accompanied the _Trumpet_. As they drew near the Woodwind defenders, her voice came over the walkie-talkie, calm and experienced. "Lock X-foils in attack positions."

The wings split like dragonfly gossamers, poised for increased maneuvering and power.

"All wings report in," said Keith.

"Red Leader standing by," Jesse replied.

"Green Leader standing by."

"Blue Leader standing by."

"Gray Leader-"

This last transmission was interrupted by a display of pyrotechnics that completely disintegrated Gray Wing.

"Here they come," Jesse commented.

"Accelerate to attack speed," Keith ordered. "Draw their fire away from the cruisers."

"Copy, Gold Leader," Jesse responded. "We're moving to point three across the axis –"

"Two of them coming in at twenty degrees – " someone advised.

"I see them," noted Jesse. "Cut left, I'll take the leader."

"Watch yourself, Jesse, three from above."

"Yeah, I – "

"I'm on it, Red Leader."

"There's too many of them – "

"You're taking a lot of fire, back off – "

"Red Four, watch out!"

"I'm hit!"

The X–wing spun, sparking, across the star field, out of power, into the void.

"You've picked one up, watch it!" Red Six yelled at Jesse.

"My scope's negative. Where is he?"

"Red Six, a squadron of fighters has broken through – "

"They're heading for the medical frigate! After them!"

"Go ahead," Keith agreed. "I'm going in. There're four marks at point three five. Cover me!"

"Right behind you, Gold Leader. Red Two, Red Three, pull in – "

"Hang on, back there."

"Close up formations, Blue Group."

"Good shot, Red Two."

"Not bad," said Keith. "I'll take out the other three…"

Calrissian steered the _Trumpet_ into the complete flip, as his crew fired at the Woodwind fighters from the belly tubas. Two were direct hits, the third a glancing blow that caused the SAX fighter to tumble into another of its own squads. The heavens were absolutely thick with them, by the _Trumpet_ was faster by half than anything else that flew.

Within a matter of minutes, the battlefield was a diffuse red glow, spotted with puffs of smoke, blazing fireballs, whirling spark showers, spinning debris, rumbling implosions, shafts of light, tumbling machinery, space-frozen corpses, wells of blackness, and electron storms.

It was a grim and dazzling spectacle. And only beginning.

Jacob Nunb made a guttural aside to Keith.

"You're right," the pilot frowned. "Only their fighters are attacking. I wonder what all those cloud destroyers are waiting for." Looked like the Empress was trying to get the Brass to buy some real estate she wasn't intending to sell.

"Dzhng zhng," the copilot warned, as another squadron of SAX fighters swooped down from above.

"I see 'em. We're sure in the middle of it now." He took a second to glance down at Goshen. "Come on, Keoni old buddy, don't let me down."

XxX

"Come, boy. See for yourself," the Empress said, motioning Chris over to the viewing window to watch the battle unfold.

The situation was degenerating fast, from Chris' perspective. Defeat after defeat was being piled on his head. How much more could he take? There seemed to be no end to the rank deeds Faulder could carry out against the world. Slowly, infinitesimally, Chris raised his hand in the direction of the bandsaber.

The Empress continued. "From here you will witness the final destruction of the Brass – and the end of your insignificant rebellion."

Chris was in torment. He raised his hand further. He realized both Faulder and Fred were watching him. He lowered his hand, lowered his level of anger, and tried to restore his previous calm, to find his center to see what it was he needed to do.

The Empress smiled, a thin, dry smile. She offered the bandsaber to Chris. "You want this, don't you? The hate is swelling in you now. Good. Take your Trombone weapon. Use it. I am unarmed. Strike me down with it. Give in to your anger. With each passing moment you make yourself more my servant."

Her rasping laughter echoed off the walls like desert wind. Fred continued staring at Chris.

Chris tried to hide his agony. "No." He thought desperately of Jason and Keena. They were part of the Drill, now, part of the energy that shaped it. Was it possible for them to distort the Empress' vision by their presence? No one was infallible, Jason had told him – surely the Empress couldn't see everything, couldn't know every future, twist every reality to suit her gluttony. _Jason_, thought Chris, _if ever I needed your guidance, it is now. Where can I take this, that it will not lead me to ruin?_

As if in answer, the Empress leered, and put the bandsaber down on the control chair near Chris' hand. "It is unavoidable," the Empress said quietly. "It is your destiny. You, like your father, are now…mine."

Chris had never felt so lost.

XxX


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Keoni, Amanda, Bruchacca, and the rest of the strike team were escorted out of the bunker by their captors. The sight that greeted them was substantially different from the way the grassy area had appeared when they'd entered. The clearing was now filled with Woodwind troops.

Hundreds of them, in white or black uniforms – some standing at ease, some viewing the scene from atop their three-wheeled rollers, some leaning on their speeder bikes. If the situation had appeared hopeless inside the bunker, it looked even worse now.

Keoni and Amanda turned to each other, full of feeling. All they'd struggled for, all they'd dreamed of – gone, now. Even so, they'd had each other for a short while at least. They'd come together from opposite ends of a wasteland of emotional isolation: Keoni had never known love, so enamored of himself was he; Amanda had never known love, so wrapped up in social upheaval was she, so intent on embracing all of humanity. And somewhere between his glassy infatuation for the one, and her glowing fervor for the all, they'd found a shady place where two could huddle, grow, even feel nourished.

But that, too, was cut short, now. The end seemed near. So much was there to say, they couldn't find a single word. Instead, they only joined hands, speaking through their fingers in these final minutes of companionship.

That's when A-10 and Tim2 jauntily entered the clearing, beeping and jabbering excitedly to each other. They stopped cold in their tracks when they saw what the clearing had become…and found all eyes suddenly focused on them.

"Oh, dear," A-10 whimpered. In a second, he and Tim2 had turned around and run right back into the woods from which they'd just come. Six sax troopers charged in after them.

The Woodwind soldiers were in time to see the two students duck behind a large tree, some twenty yards into the forest. They rushed after the androids. As they rounded the tree, they found Tim2 and A-10 standing there quietly, waiting to be taken. The troopers moved to take them. They moved too slowly.

Fifteen Flags dropped out of the overhanging branches, quickly overpowering the Woodwind troops with rocks and poles. At that, Vreni – perched in another tree – raised a ram's horn to her lips and sounded three long blasts from its bell. That was the signal for the Flags to attack.

Hundreds of them descended upon the clearing from all sides, throwing themselves against the might of the Woodwind army with unrestrained zeal. The scene was unabridged chaos.

Sax troopers fired their laser saxes at the tiny creatures, killing or wounding many – only to be overrun by dozens more in their place. Biker scouts chased squealing Flags into the Woods – and were knocked from their bikes by volleys of rocks launched from the trees.

In the first confused moments of the attack, Bruce dove into the foliage, while Keoni and Amanda hit the dirt in the cover of the arches that flanked the bunker door. Explosions all around kept them pinned from leaving; the bunker door itself was closed again, and locked.

Keoni punched out the stolen code on the control panel keys – but this time, the door didn't open. It had been reprogrammed as soon as they'd been caught.

"The code's changed," Amanda shouted as she stretched for a saxophone lying in the dirt, just out of reach, beside a felled sax trooper. Shots were crisscrossing from every direction. "We need Tim2!"

Keoni nodded, took out his walkie-talkie, pushed the sequence that signaled the little student and reached for the weapon Amanda couldn't get as the fighting stormed all around them.

Tim2 and A-10 were huddled behind a log when Tim2 got the message. He suddenly blurted out an excited whistle and shot off toward the battlefield.

"Tim2!" A-10 shouted. "Where are you going? This is no time for heroics! Come back!" Nearly beside himself, the student tore off after his best friend.

Biker scouts raced over and around the scurrying students, blasting away at the Flags who grew fiercer every time their hair was scorched. The little dolls were hanging on the legs of the Woodwind rollers, hobbling the appendages with lengths of vine, or injuring the wheel mechanisms by forcing pebbles and twigs into the hinges. They were knocking scouts off their bikes by stringing vine between trees at throat level. They were throwing rocks, jumping out of trees, impaling with spears, entangling with nets. They were everywhere.

Scores of them rallied behind Bruchacca, who had grown rather fond of them during the course of the previous night. He'd become their mascot; and they, his little country cousins. So it was with a special ferocity, now, that they came to each other's aid. Bruce was flinging sax troopers left and right, in a selfless frenzy, any time he saw them physically harming his small friends. The Flags, for their part, formed equally self-sacrificing cadres to do nothing but follow Bruchacca and throw themselves upon any soldiers who started getting the upper hand with him.

It was a wild, strange battle.

Tim2 and A-10 finally made it to the bunker door. Keoni and Amanda provided cover fire with saxes they'd finally managed to scrounge. Tim2 moved quickly to the terminal, plugged in the computer arm from his saxophone, and began scanning. Before he'd even computed the weather codes, though, a laser bolt explosion ripped the entryway, disengaging Tim2's cable arm and spilling him to the dirt.

His head began to smoke, his fittings to leak. All of a sudden every compartment on his instrument sprang open, every nozzle gushed or smoked, every wheel spun – and then stopped. A-10 rushed to his wounded companion as Keoni examined the bunker terminal.

"Well…I suppose I could hotwire this thing," he mumbled.

Meanwhile the Flags had erected a primitive catapult at the other end of the field. They fired a large boulder at one of the rollers – the scaffolding vibrated seriously, but did not topple. It turned, and headed for the catapult, laser clarinets firing. The Flags scattered. When the roller was ten feet away, the Flags chopped a mass of restraining vines, and two huge, balanced trunks crashed down on top of the Woodwind war wagon, halting it for good.

The next phase of the assault began. Flags in kite-like animal skin hang-gliders started dropping rocks on the sax troopers, or dive-bombing with spears. Vreni, who led the attack, was hit in the wing with laser fire during the first volley and crashed into a gnarled root. A charging roller sped forward to crush her, but Kelsie swooped down just in time, yanking Vreni to safety. In swerving out of the roller's way, though, Kelsie smashed into a racing speeder bike – they all went tumbling into the dense foliage.

And so it went.

The casualties mounted.

XxX

Some distance from the main area of space battle, coasting safely in the center of the blanket of cases that constituted the Woodwind fleet, was the flagcase Super Cloud Destroyer. On the bridge, Drum Major Emily watched the war through the enormous observation window – curious, as if viewing an elaborate demonstration, or an entertainment.

Two fleet section leaders stood behind her, respectfully silent; also learning the elegant designs of their Empress.

"Have the fleet hold here," Drum Major Emily ordered.

The first section leader hurried to carry out the order. The second stepped up to the window, beside the Drum Major. "We're _not_ going to attack?"

Emily smirked. "I have my orders from the Empress herself. She has something special planned." She accented the specialness with a long pause, for the inquisitive section leader to savor. "We only need to keep them from escaping."

XxX

The Empress, Lord Fred, and Chris watched the aerial battle rage from the safety of the throne room in the Death Flute.

It was a scene of pandemonium. Silent, crystalline explosions surrounded by green, violet, or magenta auras. Wildly vicious dogfights, gracefully floating crags of melted steel; icicle sprays that might have been blood.

Chris watched in horror, as another Brass case toppled against the unseeable deflector shield, exploding in a fiery concussion.

Fred watched Chris. His boy was powerful, stronger than he'd imagined…and still pliable. Not yet lost – either to the sickening, weakly side of the Drill, that had to beg for everything it received; nor to the Empress, who feared Chris with reason.

There was yet time to take Chris for his own – to retake him, to join with him in dark majesty, to rule the world together. It would only take patience and a little wizardry, to show Chris the exquisite satisfactions of the dark way and to pry him from the Empress' terrified clutch.

Fred knew Chris had seen it, too – the Empress' fear. He was a clever boy, young Chris. Fred smiled grimly to himself. He was his father's son.

The Empress interrupted Fred's contemplation with a cackled remark to Chris. "As you can see, my young apprentice, your friends have failed! Now witness the fire power of this fully _armed_ and _operational_ battle case!" She walked over to the walkie-talkie and spoke in a gravelly whisper. "Fire at will, Section Leader."

In shock, and in foreknowledge, Chris looked out across the surface of the Death Flute, to the space battle beyond and to the bulk of the Brass fleet beyond that.

Down in the bowels of the Death Flute, Section Leader Betsy gave an order. It was with mixed feelings that she issued the command, because it meant the final destruction of the Brass insurrectionists – which meant an end to the state of war, which Betsy cherished above all things. But second to ongoing war itself Betsy loved total annihilation; so while tempered with regret, this order was not entirely without thrill.

At Betsy's instruction, a controller pulled a switch, which ignited a blinking panel. Two hooded Woodwind soldiers pushed a series of buttons. A thick beam of light slowly pulsed from a long, heavily blockaded shaft. On the outer surface of the completed half of the Death Flute, a giant laser dish began to glow.

Chris watched in impotent horror, as the unbelievably huge laser beam radiated out from the muzzle of the Death Flute. It touched – for only an instant – one of the Brass cloud cruisers that was surging in the midst of the heaviest fighting. And in the next instant, the cloud cruiser was vaporized, blown to dust, returned to its most elemental particles, in a single burst of light.

In the numbing grip of despair, with the hollowest of voids devouring his heart, Chris' eyes, alone, glinted – for he saw, again, his bandsaber, lying unattended on the throne. And in this bleak and livid moment, the dark side was very much with him.

XxX

Drum Major Brent stood on the bridge in stunned disbelief, looking out the observation window at the place where, a moment before, the Brass cloud cruiser _Liberty_ had been engaged in a furious long-range battle. Now, there was nothing. Only empty space, powdered with a fine dust that sparkled in the light of more distant explosions. Brent stared in silence.

Around him, confusion was rampant. Flustered controllers were still trying to contact the _Liberty_, while fleet section leaders ran from screen to port, shouting, directing, misdirecting.

An aide handed Brent the walkie-talkie. Section Leader Calrissian's voice was coming through.

"Home-one, this is Gold Leader. That blast came from the Death Flute! Repeat, that thing's operational!"

"We saw it," Brent answered wearily. "All craft prepare to retreat."

"We won't get another chance for this, Drum Major!" Keith shouted back. He'd come a long way to be in this game.

"We have no choice, Section Leader Calrissian. Our cruisers can't repel firepower of that magnitude!"

"Keoni will have that shield down – we've gotta give him more time!"

Brent looked around him. A huge charge of flak rumbled the case, painting a brief, waxen light over the window. Calrissian was right: there would be no second chance. It was now, or it was the end.

A thousand deadly dogfights and tuba bombardments were erupting all over the skies, while the Death Flute's laser beam methodically disintegrated the Brass cases.

In the _Millennium Trumpet_, Keith steered like a maniac through an obstacle course of the giant, floating Woodwind cloud destroyers – trading laser bolts with them, dodging flak, outracing SAX fighters.

Desperately, he was shouting into his walkie-talkie, over the noise of continuous explosions, talking to Brent in the Brass command case. "Yes! I said _closer_! Move as close as you can and engage those cloud destroyers at point blank range – that way the Death Flute won't be able to fire at us without knocking out its own cases!" Bluffing was always dangerous in the last hand: but sometimes, when all your money was in the pot, it was the only way to win – and Keith never played to lose.

"At that close range, we won't last long against those cloud destroyers." Brent was already feeling giddy with resignation.

"We'll last longer than we will against that Death Flute – and we might just take a few of them with us!" Keith whooped. With a jolt, one of his forward trombones was blown away. He put the _Trumpet_ into a controlled spin, and careened around the belly of the Woodwind leviathan.

With little else to lose, Brent decided to try Calrissian's strategy. In the next minutes, dozens of Brass cruisers moved in astronomically close to the Woodwind cloud destroyers – and the colossal antagonists began blasting away at each other, like tanks at twenty paces, while hundreds of tiny fighters raced across their surfaces, zipping between laser bolts as they chased around the massive hulls.

XxX

Beyond the window of the throne room, the Brass fleet was being decimated in the soundless vacuum of space, while inside, the only sound was the Empress' thready cackle. Chris continued his spiral into desperation as the Death Flute laser beam incinerated case after case.

The Empress hissed. "Your fleet is lost – and your friends on in the Goshen system will not survive…There is no escape, my young apprentice. The Brass Alliance will die – as will your friends."

Chris' face was contorted, reflecting his spirit. Fred watched him carefully, as did the Empress. The bandsaber began to shake on its resting place. The young Trombone's hand was trembling, his lips pulled back in a grimace, his teeth grinding.

The Empress smiled. "Good. I can feel your anger. I am defenseless – take your weapon. Strike me down with all of your hatred, and your journey towards the dark side will be complete!"

Chris was able to resist no longer. The bandsaber rattled violently on the throne for a moment, then flew into his hand, impelled by the Drill. He ignited it a moment later and swung it with his full weight downward toward the Empress' skull.

In that instant, Fred's blade flashed into view, parrying Chris' attack an inch above the Empress' head. Sparks flew like forging steel, bathing Faulder's grinning face in a hellish glare.

Chris jumped back, and turned, bandsaber upraised, to face his father. Fred extended his own blade, poised to do battle.

The Empress cackled with pleasure and sat on her throne, facing the combatants – the sole audience to this dire, aggrieved contest.

XxX


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

In Goshen, the battle of the bunker continued. Sax troopers kept irradiating the Flags with sophisticated weaponry, while the skimpy little warriors bashed away at the Woodwind troops with spears, tumbled rollers with logpiles and vine trip-wires, lassoed speeder bikes with vine-ropes and net-traps.

They felled trees on their foes. They dug pits which they covered with branches, and then lured the rollers to chase them until the clumsy armored vehicles toppled into the dugouts. They started rockslides. They dammed a small, nearby stream, and then opened the floodgates, deluging a host of troops and two more rollers. They ganged up, and then ran away. They jumped on top of rollers from high branches, and poured pouches of burning lizard oil in the clarinet slits. They used knives, and spears, and slings, and made scary war-whoops to confound and dismay the enemy. They were fearless opponents.

Their example made even Bruce bolder than was his wont. He started having so much fun swinging on vines and bashing heads, he nearly forgot about his laser trumpet.

He swung onto the roof of a roller at one point, with Vreni and Kelsie clinging too his back. They landed with a thud atop the lurching contraption, then made such a banging racket trying to hang on, one of the sax troopers inside opened up the top hatch to see what was happening. Before he could fire his saxophone, Bruce plucked him out and dashed him to the ground – Kelsie and Vreni immediately dove into the hatch and subdued the other trooper.

Flags drive Woodwind rollers much the same way they drive speeder bikes – terribly, but with exhilaration. Bruce was almost thrown off the top several times, but even barking angrily down into the cockpit didn't seem to have much effect – the Flags just giggled, squealed, and careened into another speeder bike.

Bruce climbed down inside. It took him half a minute to master the controls – Woodwind technology was pretty standardized. And then, methodically, one by one, he began approaching the other, unsuspecting, Woodwind rollers, and blasting them to dust. Most had no idea what was happening.

As the giant war-machines began going up in flames, the Flags were reinspired. They rallied behind Bruce's roller. He was turning the tide of battle.

Keoni, meanwhile, was still working furiously at the control panel. Wires sparked each time he refastened another connection, but the door kept not opening. Amanda crouched at his back, firing her saxophone, giving him cover.

He motioned her at last. "I think I've got it! I got it!"

The last three wires sparked; the connection was made. There was a sudden loud WHUMP, as a second blast door crashed down in front of the first, doubling the impregnable barrier.

"Great. Now we have two doors to get through," Amanda muttered.

And that moment, she was hit in the arm by a laser bolt, and knocked to the ground.

Keoni rushed over to her. "Amanda, no!" he cried, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Princess Amanda, are you all right?" A-10 fretted.

"It's not bad," she shook her head.

"Hold it!" shouted a voice. "Don't move!"

They froze, looked up. Two sax troopers stood before them, saxes leveled, unwavering.

"Stand up," one ordered. "Hands raised."

Keoni and Amanda looked at each other, fixed their gazes deep in each other's eyes, swam there in the wells of their souls for a suspended, eternal moment, during which all was felt, understood, touched, and shared.

Solo's gaze was drawn down to Amanda's lap – she still had her small alto saxophone held at the ready. The action was hidden from the troopers, because Keoni was kneeling in front of Amanda, half-blocking their view.

He looked again into her eyes, comprehending. With a last, heartfelt smile, he whispered, "I love you."

"I know," she answered simply.

Then the moment was over; and at an unspoken, instantaneous signal, Keoni whirled out of the line of fire as Amanda blasted at the sax troopers.

The air was filled with laser fire – a glittering orange-pink haze, like an electron storm, buffeted the area, sheared by intense flares.

As the smoke cleared, a giant Woodwind roller approached, stood before him, and stopped. Keoni looked up to see its laser clarinets aimed directly in his face. He raised his arms, and took a tentative step forward. He wasn't really sure what he was going to do. "Stay back," he said quietly to Amanda, measuring the distance to the scaffolding, in his mind.

That was when the hatch on top of the roller popped open and Bruchacca stuck his head out with an ingratiating smile.

"Ahr rahr!" he barked.

Solo could have kissed him. "Bruce! Get down here! She's wounded!" He started forward to greet his partner, then stopped in mid-stride. "No, wait! I've got an idea."

XxX

Slowly, Chris and Fred circled. Bandsaber high above his head, Chris readied his attack from classic first-position; the dark lord held a lateral stance, in classic answer. Without announcement, Chris brought his blade straight down – then, when Fred moved to parry, Chris feinted and cut low. Fred counter parried, let the impact direct his sword toward Chris' throat…but Chris met the riposte and stepped back. The first blows, traded without injury. Again, they circled.

Fred was impressed with Chris' speed. Pleased, even. It was a pity, almost, he couldn't let the boy kill the Empress yet. Chris wasn't ready for that, emotionally. There was still a chance Chris would return to his friends if he destroyed the Empress now. He needed more extensive tutelage, first – training by both Fred _and_ Faulder – before he'd be ready to assume his place at Fred's right hand, ruling the world.

So Fred had to shepherd the boy through periods like this, stop him from doing damage in the wrong places – or in the right places prematurely.

Before Fred could gather his thought much further, though, Chris attacked again – much more aggressively. He advanced in a flurry of lunges, each met with a loud crack of Fred's phosphorescent saber. The dark lord retreated a step with every slash, swiveling once to bring his cutting beam up viciously – but Chris batted it away, pushing Fred back yet again. The Lord of the Flutes momentarily lost his footing on the stairs and tumbled to his knees.

Chris stood above him, at the top of the staircase, heady with his own power. It was in his hands, now, he knew it was: he could take Fred. Take his blade, take his life. Take his place at the Empress' side. Yes, even that. Chris didn't bury the thought, this time; he gloried in it. He engorged himself with its juices, felt its power tingle his cheeks. It made him feverish, this thought, with lust so overpowering as to totally obliterate all other considerations.

He had the power; the choice was his.

And then another thought emerged, slowly compulsive as an ardent lover: he could destroy the Empress, too. Destroy them both, and rule the world. Avenge and conquer.

It was a profound moment for Chris. Dizzying. Yet he did not swoon. Nor did he recoil.

He took one step forward.

For the first time, the thought entered Fred's consciousness that his son might best him. He was astounded by the strength Chris had acquired since their last duel, in Arapahoe – not to mention the boy's timing, which was honed to a thought's breadth. This was an unexpected circumstance. Unexpected and unwelcome. Fred felt humiliation crawling in on the tail of his first reaction, which was surprise, and his second, which was fear. And then the edge of humiliation curled up, to reveal bald anger. And now he wanted revenge.

These things were mirrored, each facet, by the young Trombone who now towered above him. The Empress, watching joyously, saw this, and goaded Chris on to revel in his darkness. "Good. Use your aggressive feelings, boy! Let the hate flow through you."

Chris faltered a moment – then realized what was happening. He was suddenly confused again. What did he want? What should he do? His brief exultation, his microsecond of dark clarity – gone, now, in a wash of indecision, veiled enigma. Cold awakening from a passionate flirting.

He took a step back, lowered his sword, relaxed, and tried to drive the hatred from his being.

In that instant, Fred attacked. He lunged half up the stairs, forcing Chris to reverse defensively. He bound the boy's blade with his own, but Chris disengaged and leaped to the safety of an overhead gantry. Fred jumped over the railing to the floor beneath the platform on which Chris stood.

"I will not fight you, father," Chris stated.

"You are unwise to lower your defenses!" Fred warned. His anger was layered, now – he did not want to win if the boy was not battling to the fullest. But if winning meant he had to kill a boy who wouldn't fight…then he could do that, too. Only he wanted Chris to be aware of those consequences. He wanted Chris to know this was no longer just a game. This was Darkness.

Chris heard something else, though. "Your thoughts betray you, Father. I feel the good in you…the conflict."

"There is no conflict."

"You couldn't bring yourself to kill me before, and I don't believe you'll destroy me now." Twice before, in fact – to Chris' recollection – Fred could have killed him, but didn't. In the dogfight over the first Death Flute, and later in the bandsaber duel in Arapahoe. He thought of Amanda, briefly now, too – of how Fred had had _her_ in his clutches once, had even tortured her…but didn't kill her. He winced to think of her agony, but quickly pushed that from her mind. The point was clear to him, now, though so often so murky: there was still good in his father.

This accusation _really_ made Fred angry. He could tolerate much from the insolent child, but this was insufferable. He must teach this boy a lesson he would never forget, or die learning. "You underestimate the power of the dark side. If you will not fight, then you will meet your destiny!"

Fred threw his scintillating blade – it sliced through the supports holding up the gantry on which Chris was perched, then swept around and flew back into Fred's hand. Chris tumbled to the ground and rolled down another level, under the tilting platform. In the shadow of the darkened overhang, he was out of sight. Fred paced the area like a cat, seeking the boy; but he wouldn't enter the shadows of the overhang.

"You cannot hide forever, Chris."

"I _will not_ fight you." Chris knew full well this might be his end, but so be it. He would not use darkness to fight darkness. Perhaps it would be left to Amanda, after all, to carry on the struggle, without him. Perhaps she would know a way he didn't know; perhaps she could find a path. For now, though, he could see only two paths, and one was into darkness, and one was not.

Chris put his bandsaber on the ground, and rolled it along the floor toward Fred. It stopped halfway between them, in the middle of the low overhang area. The dark lord reached out his hand – Chris' bandsaber jumped into it. He hooked it to his belt and, with grave uncertainty, entered the shadowy overhang.

He was picking up additional feelings from Chris, now, new crosscurrents of doubt. Remorse, regret, abandonment. Shades of pain. But somehow not directly related to Fred. To others, to…Goshen. Ah, that was it – the sanctuary system where his friends would soon die. Chris would learn soon enough: friendship was different on the dark side. A different thing altogether.

"Give yourself to the dark side," he entreated. "It is the only way you can save your friends. Yes, your thoughts betray you. Your feelings for them are strong, especially for – "

Fred stopped. He sensed something.

Chris withdrew further into shadow. He tried to hide, but there was no way to hide what was in his mind – Amanda was in pain. Her agony cried to him now, and his spirit cried with her. He tried to shut it out, to shut it up, but the cry was loud, and he couldn't stifle it, couldn't leave it alone, had to cradle it openly, to give it solace.

Fred's consciousness invaded that private place.

Fred was incredulous. "Sister? So, you have a twin sister. Your feelings have now betrayed her, too…Jason was wise to hide her from me. Now his failure is complete." His smile was clear to Chris, through the mask, through the shadows, through all the realms of darkness. "If you will not turn to the dark side, then perhaps she will."

This, then, was Chris' breaking point. For Amanda was everyone's last unflagging hope. If Fred turned his twisted, misguided cravings on her…

"Never!" he screamed. His bandsaber flew off Fred's belt into his own hand, igniting as it came to him.

He rushed to his father with a frenzy he'd never known. Nor had Fred. The gladiators battled fiercely, sparks flying from the clash of their radiant weapons, but it was soon evident that the advantage was all Chris'. And he was pressing it. They locked swords, body to body. When Chris pushed Fred back to break the clinch, the dark lord hit his head on an overhanging beam in the cramped space. He stumbled backward even farther, out of the low-hanging area. Chris pursued him relentlessly.

Blow upon blow, Chris forced Fred to retreat – back, onto the bridge that crossed the vast, seemingly bottomless shaft to the power core. Each stroke of Chris' saber pummeled Fred, like accusations, like screams, like shards of hate.

The dark lord was driven to his knees. He raised his blade to block yet another onslaught – and Chris slashed Fred's right hand off at the wrist.

The hand, along with bits of metal, wires, and electronic devices, clattered uselessly away while Fred's bandsaber tumbled over the edge of the span, into the endless shaft below, without a trace.

Chris stared at his father's twitching, severed, mechanical hand – and then at his own black-gloved artificial part – and realized suddenly just how much he'd become like his father. Like the man he hated.

Trembling, he stood above Fred, the point of his glowing blade at the dark lord's throat. He wanted to destroy this thing of darkness, this thing that was once his father, this thing that was…him.

Suddenly the Empress was there, looking on, chuckling with uncontrollable, pleased agitation. "Good! Your hate has made you powerful. Now, fulfill your destiny…and take your father's place at _my_ side!"

Chris stared at his father beneath him, then at the Empress, then back at Fred. This was darkness – and it was the _darkness_ he hated. Not his father, not even the Empress. But the darkness _in_ them. In them, and in himself.

And the only way to destroy the darkness was to renounce it. For good and for all. He stood suddenly erect, and made the decision for which he'd spent his life in preparation.

He hurled his bandsaber away. "Never. I'll never turn to the dark side. You've failed, Your Highness. I am a Trombone, like my father before me."

The Empress' glee turned to sullen rage. "So be it…Trombone."

XxX

Inside the bunker in Goshen, Woodwind controllers watched the main view-screen of the Flag battle just outside. Though the image was clogged with static, the fighting seemed to be winding down. About time, since they'd initially been told that the locals in this system were harmless nonbelligerents.

The interference seemed to worsen – probably another antenna damaged in the fighting – when suddenly a roller pilot appeared on the screen, waving excitedly.

"It's over, Section Leader. The Brass have been routed and are fleeing into the woods. We need reinforcements to continue the pursuit."

The bunker personnel all cheered. The shield was safe.

"Send three squads to help," ordered the section leader. "Open the back door!"

The bunker door opened, the Woodwind troops came rushing out only to find themselves surrounded by Brass and Flags, looking bloody and mean. The Woodwind troops surrendered without a fight.

Keoni, Bruce, and five others ran into the bunker with the explosive charges. They placed the timed devices at eleven strategic points in and around the power generator, then ran out again as fast as they could.

Amanda, still in great pain from her wounds, lay in the sheltered comfort of some distant bushes. She was shouting orders to the Flags, to gather their prisoners on the far side of the clearing, away from the bunker when Keoni and Bruce tore out, racing for cover. In the next moment, the bunker went.

It was a spectacular display, explosion after explosion sending a wall of fire hundreds of feet into the air, creating a shock wave that knocked every living creature off its feet, and charred all the greenery that faced the clearing.

The bunker was destroyed.

XxX

A section leader ran up to Drum Major Brent, his voice tremulous. "Sir, the shield around the Death Flute has lost its power."

Brent looked at the view-screen; the electronically generated web was gone. The Death Flute now floated in black, empty, unprotected space. He rushed over to the walkie-talkie and shouted into the multifrequency war channel. "The shield is down! Commence attack on the Death Flute's main reactor!"

Keith's voice was the next one heard. "I see it. We're on our way. Red group! Gold group! Blue squad! All fighters follow me! I told you they'd do it!" _That's my man, Keoni. Now it's my turn._

XxX

"If you will not be turned, you will be destroyed!"

Faulder raised her spidery arms toward Chris: blinding white bolts of energy coruscated from her fingers, shot across the room like sorcerous lightening, and tore through the boy's insides, looking for ground. The young Trombone was at once confounded and in agony – he'd never heard of such a power, such a corruption of the Drill, let alone experienced it.

But if it was Drill-generated, it could be Drill-repelled. Chris raised his arms to deflect the bolts. Initially, he was successful – the lightening rebounded from his touch, harmlessly into the walls. Soon, though, the shocks came with such speed and power, that they coursed over and into him, and he could only shrink before them, convulsing with pain, his knees buckling, his powers at ebb.

Fred crawled, like a wounded animal, to his Empress' side.

Chris was nearly unconscious beneath the continuing assault of the Empress' lightening. Tormented beyond reason, betaken of a weakness that drained his very essence, he hoped for nothing more than to submit to the nothingness toward which he was drifting.

The Empress smiled down at the enfeebled young Trombone, as Fred struggled to his feet beside his mistress.

"Young fool," Faulder rasped at Chris. "Only now, at the end, do you understand. Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the dark side. You have paid the price for your lack of vision! Now, young Skywalker…you will die."

She laughed maniacally; and although it would not have seemed possible to Chris, the outpouring of bolts from the Empress' fingers actually increased in intensity. The sound screamed through the room, the murderous brightness of the flashes was overwhelming.

Chris' body slowed, wilted, finally crumpled under the hideous barrage. He stopped moving altogether. At last, he appeared totally lifeless. The Empress hissed maliciously.

At that instant, Fred sprang up and grabbed the Empress from behind, pinning Faulder's upper arms to her torso. Weaker than he'd ever been, Fred had lain still these last few minutes, focusing his every fiber of being on this one, concentrated act – the only action possible; his last, if he failed. Ignoring pain, ignoring his shame and his weaknesses, ignoring the bone-crushing noise in his head, he focused solely and sightlessly on his will – his will to defeat the evil embodied in the Empress.

Faulder struggled in the grip of Fred's unfeeling embrace, her hands still shooting bolts of malign energy out in all directions. In her wild flailing, the lightening ripped across the room, tearing into Fred. The dark lord fell again, electric currents crackling down his shako, over his cape, into his heart.

Fred stumbled with his load to the middle of the bridge over the black chasm leading to the power core. He held the wailing despot over his head, and with a final spasm of strength, hurled her into the abyss.

Faulder's body, still spewing bolts of light, spun out of control, into the void, bouncing back and forth off the sides of the shaft as it fell. It disappeared at last; but then, a few seconds later, a distant explosion could be heard, far down at the core. A rush of air billowed out of the shaft, into the throne room.

The wind whipped at Lord Fred's cape, as he staggered and collapsed toward the hole, trying to follow his mistress to the end. Chris crawled to his father's side, though, and pulled the dark lord away from the edge of the chasm, to safety.

Both of them lay on the floor, entwined in each other, too weak to move, too moved to speak.

XxX


	9. Chapter 9

(A/N) Well, here we are, finally at the end of the Band Wars trilogy after three years of work. When I started this little parody during my sophomore year, I never imagined it would get so big and involve so many people. Now, here I am, a month shy of heading off to college, and the three finished drafts finally sit in front of me. I can look at the first chapter of A New Horn and skip ahead to the chapter you're about to read and see how I've grown as a writer. When my friends read the trilogy, they say it's kind of scary how many parallels exist between the story and our real life band. Many of them I hadn't even planned on. I can hardly believe it's finished. I hope everyone's enjoyed reading these stories as much as I have writing them. May the Drill be with you.

Chapter 9

The _Trumpet _plunged to the surface of the Death Flute, followed by hordes of Brass fighters, followed by a still-massing but disorganized array of Woodwind SAX fighters – while three Brass cloud cruisers headed for the huge Woodwind super cloud destroyer, Fred's flagcase, which seemed to be having difficulties with its guidance system.

Keith and the first wave of X-wings headed for the unfinished portion of the Death Flute, skimming low over the surface of the completed side.

"Stay low until we get to the unfinished side," Jesse told her squad. Nobody needed to be told.

"Squadron of enemy fighters coming –"

"Blue Wing," called Keith, "take your group and draw the SAX fighters away –"

"I'll do what I can."

"I'm picking up interference…the Death Flute's jamming us, I think –"

"More fighters coming at ten o'clock –"

"There's the superstructure," Keith called. "Watch for the main reactor shaft."

He turned hard into the unfinished side, and began weaving dramatically among protruding girders, half-built towers, mazelike channels, temporary scaffolding, and sporadic floodlights. The antiaircraft defenses weren't nearly as well developed here yet – they'd been depending completely on the deflector shield for protection. Consequently the major sources of worry for the Brass were the physical jeopardizes of the structure itself, and the Woodwind SAX fighters on their tails.

"I see it – the power-channel system," Jesse radioed. "I'm going in."

"I see it too," agreed Keith. "Here goes nothing."

"This isn't going to be easy –"

Over a tower and under a bridge – and suddenly they were flying at top speed inside a deep shaft that was barely wide enough for three fighters, wing to wing. Moreover, it was pierced, along its entire twisting length, by myriad feeding shafts and tunnels, alternate forks, and dead-end caverns; and spiked, in addition, with an alarming number of obstacles _within_ the shaft itself: heavy machinery, structural elements, power cables, floating stairways, barrier half-walls, and piled debris.

A score of Brass fighters made the first turn-off into the power shaft, followed by twice that number of SAX fighters. Two X-wings lost it right away, careening into a derrick to avoid the first volley of laser fire.

The chase was on.

"Where are we going, Gold Leader?" Jesse called out gaily. A laser bolt hit the shaft above her, showering her window with sparks.

"Lock onto the strongest power source," Keith suggested. "It should be the power generator."

"Red Wing, stay alert – we could run out of space real fast."

They quickly strung out into single and double file, as it started becoming apparent that the shaft was not only pocked with side-vents and protruding obstacles, but also narrowing across its width at every turn.

SAX fighters hit another Brass fighter, who exploded in flames. Then another SAX fighter hit a piece of machinery, with a similar result.

"I've got a reading on a major shaft obstruction ahead," Keith announced.

"Just picked it up. Will you make it?"

"Going to be a tight squeeze."

It was a tight squeeze. It was a heat-wall occluding three fourths of the tunnel, with a dip in the shaft at the same level to make up a little room. Keith had to spin the _Trumpet_ through 360 degrees while rising, falling, and accelerating. Luckily, the X-wings and Y-wings weren't quite as bulky. Still, two more of them didn't make it on the downside. The smaller SAX fighters drew closer.

Suddenly coarse white static blanketed all the view-screens.

"My scope's gone!" yelled Jesse.

"Cut speed," cautioned Keith. "Some kind of power discharge causing interference."

"Switch to visual scanning."

"That's useless at these velocities – we'll have to fly nearly blind."

Two blind X-wings hit the wall as the shaft narrowed again. A third was blown apart by the gaining Woodwind fighters.

"Green Leader!" called Keith.

"Copy, Gold Leader."

"Split off and head back to the surface – Home-one just called for a fighter. And see if you can get a few of those SAX fighters to follow you."

Green Leader and his cohort peeled off, out of the power shaft, back up to the cruiser battle. One SAX fighter followed, firing continuously.

Brent's voice came in over the walkie-talkie. "The Death Flute is turning away from the fleet – looks like it's repositioning to destroy the Goshen System."

"How long before it's in position?" Keith asked.

"Point oh three."

"That's not enough time! We're running out of time."

Jesse broke in the transmission. "Well, we're running out of shaft, too."

At that instant the _Trumpet_ scraped through an even smaller opening, this time injuring her auxiliary thrusters.

"That was too close," muttered Calrissian.

"Gdzhng dzn," nodded the copilot.

XxX

Brent stared wild-eyed out the observation window. He was looking down onto the deck of the super cloud destroyer; only miles away. Fires burst over the entire stern, and the Woodwind war case was listing badly to starboard.

"We've knocked out their forward shields," Brent said into the walkie-talkie. "Fire at the bridge."

Green Leader's group swooped in low, from bottom side, up from the Death Flute.

"Glad to help out, Home-one," called Green Leader.

"Firing proton trombone," advised Green Wing.

The bridge was hit, with kaleidoscopic results. A rapid chain reaction was set off, from power station to power station along the middle third of the huge destroyer, producing a dazzling rainbow of explosions that buckled the case at right angles, and started it spinning like a pinwheel toward the Death Flute.

The first bridge explosion took Green Leader with it; the subsequent uncontrolled joyride snagged ten more fighters, two cruisers, and an ordnance vessel. By the time the whole exothermic conglomerate finally crashed into the side of the Death Flute, the impact was momentous enough to actually jolt the battle case, setting off internal explosions and thunderings all through its network of reactors, munitions, and halls.

XxX

For the first time, the Death Flute rocked. The collision with the exploding destroyer was only the beginning, leading to various systems breakdowns, which led to reactor meltdowns, which led to personnel panic, abandonment of posts, further malfunctions, and general chaos.

Smoke was everywhere, substantial rumblings came from all directions at once, people were running and shouting. Electrical fires, steam explosions, cabin depressurizations, disruption of chain-of-command. Added to this, the continued bombardments by Brass cruisers – smelling fear in the enemy – merely heightened the sense of hysteria that was already pervasive.

For the Empress was dead. The central, powerful evil that had been the cohesive force to the Woodwind Empire was gone; and when the dark side was this diffused, this nondirected – this was simply where it led.

Confusion.

Desperation.

Damp fear.

In the midst of this uproar, Chris had made it, somehow, to the main docking bay – where he was trying to carry the hulking deadweight of his father's weakening body toward a Woodwind case. Halfway there, his strength finally gave out, though; and he collapsed under the strain.

Slowly he rose again. Like an automaton, he hoisted his father's body over his shoulder and stumbled toward one of the last remaining cases.

Chris rested his father on the ground, trying to collect strength one last time, as explosions grew louder all around them. Sparks hissed in the rafters; one of the walls buckled, and smoke poured through a gaping fissure. The floor shook.

Fred motioned Chris closer to him. "Chris…help me take this mask off."

"But you'll die."

The dark lord's voice was weary. "Nothing can stop that now. Just for once…let me look on you with my own eyes."

Chris was afraid. Afraid to see his father as he really was. Afraid to see what person could have become so dark – the same person who'd fathered Chris, and Amanda. Afraid to know the Frederic Skywalker who lived inside Darth Fred.

Fred, too, was afraid – to let his son see him, to remove this armored mask that had been between them for so long. The black, armored mask that had been his only means of existing for over twenty years. It had been his voice, and his breath, and his invisibility – his shield against all human contact. But now he would remove it; for he would see his son before he died.

Together they lifted the heavy shako from Fred's head – inside the mask portion, a complicated breathing apparatus had to be disentangled, a speaking modulator and view-screen detached from the power unit in back. But when the mask was finally off and set aside, Chris gazed on his father's face.

It was the sad, benign face of an old man. Bald, beardless, with a mighty scar running from the top of his head to the back of the scalp, he had unfocused, deep-set, dark eyes, and his skin was pasty white, for it had not seen the sun in two decades. The old man smiled weakly; tears glazed his eyes, now. For a moment, he looked not too unlike Jason.

It was a face full of meaning, that Chris would forever recall. Regret, he saw most plainly. And shame. Memories could be seen flashing across it…memories of rich times. And horrors. And love, too.

It was a face that hadn't touched the world in a lifetime. In Chris' lifetime. He saw the wizened nostrils twitch, as they tested a first, tentative smell. He saw the head tilt imperceptibly to listen – for the first time without electronic auditory amplification. Chris felt a pang of remorse that the only sounds now to be heard were those of explosions, the only smells, the pungent sting of electrical fires. Still, it was a touch. Palpable, unfiltered.

He saw the old eyes focus on him. Tears burned Chris' cheeks and fell on his father's lips. His father smiled at the taste.

It was a face that had not seen itself in twenty years.

Fred saw his son crying, and knew it must have been at the horror of the face the boy beheld.

It intensified, momentarily, Fred's own sense of anguish – to his crimes, now, he added guilt at the imagined repugnance of his appearance. But then this brought him to mind of the way he used to look – striking, and grand, with a wry tilt to his brow that hinted of invincibility and took in all of life with a wink. Yes, that was how he'd looked once.

And this memory brought a wave of other memories with it. Memories of brotherhood, and home. His dear wife, Jessica. The freedom of the open skies. Jason.

Jason, his friend…and how that friendship had turned. Turned, he knew not how – but got injected, nonetheless, with some uncaring virulence that festered, until…hold. These were memories he wanted none of, not now. Memories of molten lava, crawling up his back…no!

This boy had pulled him from that pit – here, now, with this act. This boy was good.

The boy was good, and the boy had come from _him_ – so there must have been good in _him_, too. He smiled up again at his son, and for the first time, loved him. And for the first time in many long years, loved himself again, as well.

Suddenly he smelled something – flared his nostrils, sniffed once more. Wildflowers, that was what it was. Just blooming; it must be spring.

And there was thunder – he cocked his head, strained his ears. Yes, spring thunder, for a spring rain. To make the flowers bloom.

Yes, there…he felt a raindrop on his lips. He licked the delicate droplet…but wait, it wasn't sweet water, it was salty, it was…a teardrop.

He focused on Chris once again, and saw his son was crying. Yes that was it; he was tasting his boy's grief – because he looked so horrible; because he _was_ so horrible.

But he wanted to make it all right for Chris, he wanted Chris to know that he wasn't really ugly like this, not deep inside, not altogether. With a little self-deprecatory smile, he shook his head at Chris, explaining away the unsightly beast his son saw.

Chris shook his head, too – to tell his father it was all right, to dismiss the old man's shame, to tell him nothing mattered now. And everything – but he couldn't speak.

Fred managed to speak, though, weakly – almost inaudibly. "Now…go, my son. Leave me."

At that, Chris found his voice. "No. You're coming with me. I'll not leave you here. I've got to save you."

"You already have, Chris," he whispered. He wished, briefly, that he could have seen Keena one last time, to thank the old Trombone for the training he'd given Chris…but perhaps he'd be with Keena soon, now, in the ethereal oneness of the Drill. And with Jason.

"Father, I won't leave you," Chris protested.

Fred pulled Chris very close, spoke into his ear. "You were right…you were right about me…Tell your sister…you were right."

With that, he closed his eyes, and Darth Fred – Frederic Skywalker – died.

A tremendous explosion filled the back of the bay with fire, knocking Chris flat to the ground. Slowly, he rose again; and like an automaton, stumbled toward one of the last remaining cases.

XxX

The _Millennium Trumpet_ continued its swerving race through the labyrinth of power channels, inching ever closer to the hub of the giant case – the main reactor. The Brass cruisers were unloading a continuous bombardment on the exposed, unfinished superstructure of the Death Flute, now, each hit causing a resonating shudder in the immense battle case, and a new series of catastrophic events within.

Section Leader Betsy sat, brooding, in the control room of the Death Flute, watching all about her crumble. Half of her crew was dead, wounded, or run off—where they hoped to find sanctuary was unclear, if not insane. The rest wandered ineffectually, or railed at the enemy cases, or fired all their flutes at all sectors, or shouted orders, or focused desperately on a single task, as if that would save them. Or, like Betsy, simply brooded.

She couldn't fathom what she'd done wrong. She'd been patient, she'd been loyal, she'd been clever, and she'd been hard. She was the section leader of the greatest battle case ever built. Or, at least, almost built. She hated this Brass Alliance, now, with a child's hate, untempered. She'd loved it once—it had been the small boy she could bully, the enraged baby animal she could torture. But the boy had grown up now; it knew how to fight back effectively. It had broken its bonds.

Betsy hated it now.

Yet there seemed to be little she could do at this point. Except, of course, destroy Goshen—she could do that. It was a small act, a token really—to incinerate something green and living, gratuitously, meanly, toward no end but that of wanton destruction. A small act, but deliciously satisfying.

An aide ran up to her. "The Brass fleet is closing, ma'am."

"Concentrate all fire in that sector," she answered distractedly. A console on the far wall burst into flame.

"The fighters in the superstructure are evading our defense system, Section Leader. Shouldn't we—"

"Flood sectors 304 and 138. That should slow them up." She arched her eyebrows at the aide.

This made little sense to the aide, who had cause to wonder at the section leader's grasp of the situation. "But ma'am…"

"What is the rotation factor to firing range on the Goshen System?"

The aide checked the computer screen. "Point oh two to system target, ma'am. Section Leader, the fleet—"

"Accelerate rotation until system is in range, and then fire on my mark."

"Yes, ma'am." The aide pulled a bank of switches. "Rotation accelerating, ma'am. Point oh one to system target, ma'am. Sixty seconds to firing range. Ma'am, goodbye, ma'am." The aide saluted, put the firing switch in Betsy's hand as another explosion shook the control room, and ran out the door.

Betsy smiled calmly at the view-screen. Earth was starting to come into view again. She fondled the detonation switch in her hand. Point oh oh five to system target. Screams erupted in the next room.

Thirty seconds to firing.

XxX

Keith was homing in on the reactor core shaft. Else only Jesse was left, flying just ahead of him, and Gold Wing, just behind. Several SAX fighters still trailed.

These central twistings were barely two planes wide, and turned sharply every five or ten seconds at the speeds Keith was reaching. Another Woodwind case exploded against a wall; another shot down Gold Wing.

And then there were two.

Keith's tail-gunners kept the remaining SAX fighters jumping in the narrow space, until at last the main reactor shaft came into view. They'd never seen a reactor that awesome.

"It's too big, Gold Leader," yelled Jesse. "My proton trombone won't even dent that."

"Go for the wind regulator on the north tower," Keith directed. "I'll take the main reactor. We're concussion tubas—they should penetrate. Once I let them go, we won't have much time to get out of here, though."

"I'm already on my way out," Jesse exclaimed.

She fired her trombone with a war cry, hitting both sides of the north tower, and peeled off, accelerating.

The _Trumpet_ waited three dangerous seconds longer, then fired its concussion tubas with a powerful roar. For another second the flash was too bright to see what had happened. And then the whole reactor began to go.

"Direct hit!" shouted Keith. "Now comes the hard part."

The shaft was already caving in on top of him, creating a tunnel effect. The _Trumpet_ maneuvered through the twisting outlet, through walls of flame, and through moving shafts, always just ahead of the continuing chain of explosions.

Jesse tore out of the superstructure at barely met speed, whipped around the near side of the moon, and coasted into deep space, slowing slowly in a gentle arc, to return to the safety of Earth.

A moment later, in a destabilized Woodwind case, Chris escaped the main docking bay, just as that section began to blow apart completely. His wobbling craft, too, headed for the green sanctuary in the near distance.

And finally, as if being spit out of the very flames of the conflagration the _Millennium Trumpet_ shot toward Earth, only moments before the Death Flute flared into brilliant oblivion, like a fulminant supernova.

XxX

Keoni was binding Amanda's arm wound in a fern dell when the Death Flute blew. It captured everyone's attention, wherever they happened to be—Flags, sax trooper prisoners, Brass troops—this final, turbulent flash of self-destruction, incandescent in the evening sky. The Brass cheered.

Amanda touched Keoni's cheek. He leaned over, and kissed her; then sat back, seeing her eyes focused on the starry sky.

"Hey," he jostled. "I'm sure Chris wasn't on that thing when it blew."

She nodded. "He wasn't. I can feel it." Her brother's living presence touched her, through the Drill. She reached out to answer the touch, to reassure Chris that she was all right. Everything was all right.

Keoni looked at her with deep love, special love. For she was a special woman. A princess not by title, but by heart. Her fortitude astounded him, yet she held herself so lightly. Once, he'd wanted whatever he wanted, for himself, because he wanted it. Now he wanted everything for her. _Her_ everythings. And one thing he could see she wanted dearly, was Chris.

"You love him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said matter-of-factly, scanning the sky. He was alive, Chris was alive. And the other—the Dark One—was dead.

"All right. I understand. Fine," Keoni went on. "When he comes back…I won't get in the way."

She squinted at him, suddenly aware they were crossing wires, having different conversations. Then she realized what he was talking about. "Oh, no," she laughed. "It's not like that at all—he's my _brother_."

Keoni was successively stunned, embarrassed, and elated. This made _everything_ fine, just fine. He pulled her to him and kissed her softly.

Just then, Kelsie peaked into the small dell, giggling and pointing at the two lovers. Keoni reached over to tousle her hair and pulled the midget down into the ferns with them. Together, the three of them gazed up at the waning glow of the burning Death Flute.

XxX

Chris stood in a forest clearing before a great pile of logs and branches. Lying, still and robed, atop the mound, was the lifeless body of Darth Fred. Chris set a torch to the kindling.

As the flames enveloped the corpse, smoke rose from the vents in the mask, almost like a black spirit, finally freed. Chris stared with a fierce sorrow at the conflagration. Silently, he said his last goodbye. He, alone, had believed in the small speck of humanity remaining in his father. That redemption rose, now, with these flames, into the night.

Chris followed the blazing embers as they sailed to the sky. They mixed, there, in his vision, with the fireworks the Brass fighters were setting off in victory celebration. And these, in turn, mingled with the bonfires that speckled the woods and the Flags village—fires of elation, of comfort and triumph. He could hear the drums beating, the music weaving in the firelight, the cheers of brave reunion. Chris' cheer was mute as he gazed into the fires of his own victory and loss.

XxX

A huge bonfire blazed in the center of the Flag village square for the celebration that night. Brass and Flags rejoiced in the warm firelight of the cool evening—singing, dancing, and laughing, in the communal language of liberation. Even Vreni and Tim2 had reconciled, and were doing a little jig together, as others clapped in time to the music. A-10, his regal days in the village over, was content to sit near the spinning little student who was his best friend in the world. He thanked the Maker that Captain Solo had been able to fix Tim2, not to mention Mistress Amanda—for a man without protocol, Solo did have his moments. And he thanked the Maker this bloody war was over.

The prisoners had been sent on cases to what was left of the Woodwind fleet—the Brass cloud cruisers were dealing with all that. Up there, somewhere. The Death Flute had burned itself out.

Keoni, Amanda, and Bruchacca stood off a short way from the revelers. They stayed close to each other, not talking; periodically glancing at the path that led into the village. Half waiting, half trying not to wait; unable to do anything else.

Until, at last, their patience was rewarded: Chris and Keith, exhausted but happy, stumbled down the path, out of the darkness and into the light. The friends rushed to greet them. They all embraced, cheered, jumped about, fell over, and finally just huddled, still wordless, content with the comfort of each other's touch.

In a while, the two students sidled over as well, to stand beside their dearest comrades.

The tiny Flags continued in wild jubilation, far into the night, while this small company of gallant adventurers looked on from the sidelines.

For an evanescent moment, looking into the bonfire, Chris thought he saw faces dancing—Keena, Jason; was it his father? He drew away from his companions, to try to see what the faces were saying; they were ephemeral, and spoke only to the shadows of the flames, and then disappeared altogether.

It gave Chris a momentary sadness but then Amanda took his hand, and drew him back close to her and to the others, back into their circle of warmth, and camaraderie; and love.

The Empire was dead.

Long live the Alliance.

XxX


End file.
